CHANGE 



J. O. Francis 




Class 



'Er- 



Bonk J^il fir 

COPU^IGHT DEPOSIT. 



CHANGE 




VOLUME VII 
The Drama League Series of Plays 



») \ \''^^ 



VOLUMES IN 
THE DRAMA LEAGUE SERIES OF PLA YS 




I. — Kindling By Charles Kenyan 

II. — A Thousand Years Ago . By Percy MacKaye 



III. — The Great Galeoto . 
IV. — The Sunken Bell . 
'V. — Mary Goes First . . 
VI. — Her Husband's Wife . 

VII. — Change 

VIII. — Marta of the Lowlands 



By Jose Echegaray 

By Gerhart Hawptmann 

By Henry Arthur Jones 

. . By A. E. Thomas 

. By J. 0. Francis 

By Angel Guimerd 



Other Volumes in Preparation 




J. O. FRANCIS 

AUTHOR OF "change," WHICH WON THE LORD HOWARD DE 
WALDEN PRIZE 



CHANGE 



BY 

J. O. FRANCIS 



WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 

MONTROSE J. MOSES 




Garden City New York 

DOUBLED AY, PAGE & COMPANY 

1914 






ALL RIGHTS RESERVED BY WALTER HAST, PRODUCER 
AND AGENT 

Copyright, 1913, by JOHN OSWALD FRANCIS 



In its present form this play is dedicated to the reading 
public only, and no performances of it may be given. 
Any piracy or infringement will be prosecuted in accord- 
ance with the penalties provided by the United States 
Statutes: 

Sec. 4966. — Any person publicly performing or representing 
any dramatic or musical composition, for which copyright has 
been obtained, without the consent of the proprietor of the said 
dramatic or musical composition, or his heirs or assigns, shall be 
liable for damages therefor, such damages in all cases to be as- 
sessed at such sum, not less than one hundred dollars for the 
first and fifty dollars for every subsequent performance, as to 
the Court shall appear to be just. If the unlawful performance 
and representation be wilful and for profit, such person or per- 
sons shall be guilty of a misdemeanor, and upon conviction be 
imprisoned for a period not exceeding one year. — U. S. Revised 
Statutes, Title 60, Chap. 3. 



SEP 29 1914 

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INTRODUCTION 

There is nothing more fraught with the elements of 
tragedy than a tradition which battles against change; 
nothing more likely to win our sympathy than youthful 
response to a powerful call for a new order of things. 
Following in the footsteps of Ibsen's "The Masterbuilder," 
the stage has been given a number of dramas that have 
exalted the younger generation. Especially in the so- 
called "new" drama of England has the topic been a 
favourite one. Such plays as the late Stanley Houghton's 
"The Younger Generation," Miss Githa Sowerby's "Ruth- 
erford & Son," and Mr. Francis's "Change" have brought 
to bear on the subject all the minuteness of observation 
which characterizes their "school." But there is an ethical 
difference between Mr. Francis and the other dramatists 
mentioned; he carries the art of the reaUst to a very high 
pinnacle by being eminently fair; by allowing his sense 
of justice full swing. After a close reading of "Change," 
one cannot help but feel that all of the characters have been 
given a fair chance to express themselves upon their most 
poignant interests, and in accordance with their separate 
training and tradition. It is only toward the end of his 
play that Mr. Francis throws the weight of his sympathy 
on the side of Gwen, and adds the saving human grace to 
an otherwise earnestly conceived problem of change. 

In a very picturesque fashion, Mr. Arnold Bennett's 

[v] 



INTRODUCTION 



''Milestones" illustrated the truth that the new order 
becomes old in the face of a newer order still; such is the 
law of progress. Mr. Bernard Shaw, in "Fanny's First 
Play," however vigorous his plea for youth, made unpro- 
gressive O'Dowda a sympathetic figure, and cast a sur- 
prising glow of sentiment around formal religion; perhaps 
he is beginning to feel the force of Browning's "Grow old 
along with me. The best is yet to be. The last of life for 
which the first was made." Yet, after reading these vari- 
ous plays, I return to Mr. Francis's "Change" with the 
conviction that it is one of the most interesting studies 
of the younger generation we have thus far had. 

"Change" is a notable play. It has intrinsic literary 
value, its dialogue containing much to stamp it as a drama 
of national significance and of excellent workmanship. 
In its social philosophy, it is so very extreme in expression 
that one has perfect right to regard it as a play of to- 
morrow rather than as a drama of to-day. This extreme at- 
titude suggests that the author himself, with his quickened 
understanding, has broadened his scope as a dramatist, and 
has within himself a far-reaching, democratic spirit. 

There is another interesting claim that "Change" has 
to our recognition; its compact canvas introduces for the 
first time in modern drama Welsh atmosphere and Welsh 
tradition. A pioneer play assuredly affords us an oppor- 
tunity of regarding its historical position in the country of 
its birth. If history repeats itself, and Wales is on the eve 
of a literary flowering such as that through which Ireland 
has passed under the inspiration of Mr. Yeats and Lady 
Gregory, "Change" will, sooner or later, be regarded as 
the first of a line of native plays with a particular genre 
of its own. 

[vi] 



INTRODUCTION 



To my mind, the mere fact that "Change" is a prize 
play is its least recommendation. Those judges who, in 
1911, awarded one hundred pounds to Mr. Francis because 
he had conformed with Lord Howard de Walden's con- 
dition that the successful contestant should have sub- 
mitted "the best play written by a Welsh author and 
dealing with life in Wales — a Welsh setting with Welsh 
characters" — those judges must have felt a delightful 
satisfaction that a competition should have been the 
means of encouraging the creation of such a piece as 
"Change," with its sense of life under human and social 
stress. But what seems to have been a mere vagary of a 
prize competition has turned out to be something of 
national significance to Wales. In 1912 and 1913 Lord 
Howard continued to ofiFer prizes, and at last he found 
that he had on hand a sufficient number of plays, together 
with what he himself had written under the pseudonym 
of T. E. Ellis, to form a repertory of native dramas. He 
was further encouraged in his next step by the fact that 
when "Change" was given its first London production by 
the Licorporated Stage Society on December 7, 1913, 
it was hailed by the leading critics for its distinction of 
dialogue and for its forceful ideas. 

Thus encouraged. Lord Howard founded the Welsh 
National Drama Company, himseK serving as chairman 
of directors; this company is bi-lingual, its object being, 
as in the history of the Irish theatre, to encourage the 
native tongue, which seems, with the rise of the younger 
generation, to be losing hold on Wales. 

Again, "Change" adds still further to its significance 
by being the initial play to launch the Welsh National 
Drama Company when it began operations at Cardiff in 

[vii] 



INTRODUCTION 



May, 1914, the first instance, so Mr. Francis writes, "of a 
performance in Wales of a Welsh play by a professional 
repertory company in the history of the country." And 
it is encouraging to hear that, so far, the venture has been 
successful, artistically and financially. 

Wales is now beginning to open up to the influence of the 
theatre. For centuries she has remained indifferent to 
drama, receiving no impetus from the period of mystery 
and miracle plays, or from the Elizabethan era. As Mr. 
Francis declares, this was probably due to the fact that 
Wales had no towns and cities *'to foster the most 
'social* of the forms of literature." From the legendary 
and chivalric influence of the Arthurian cycle, Wales suc- 
cumbed to the gloom of Calvinism during the great 
Puritan Revival. So that it is only now, when Wales 
seems on the verge of social and industrial upheaval, that 
drama declares itself a force, without any native tradition, 
without any evolutionary history to trace. Full grown, 
it declares itself with modern technique in such a play as 
"Change." 

In this twentieth century, nevertheless, Wales is forced 
to adopt a mediaeval custom. All the towns and cities 
are to be found in the south of the country — where the 
industrial people live. To the north the population is al- 
most entirely agricultural, and, therefore, more scattered 
and diffuse. The Welsh National Drama Company has 
adopted a novel expedient of "taking the drama to the 
people, where they cannot get to the drama." During the 
summer of 1914, the directors intend purchasing a travel- 
ling theatre for the country districts, fully equipped with 
electric lights, and drawn by traction engines. More 
modern in its arrangement, with the tradition of the 

[viii 1 



INTRODUCTION 



modern theatre to follow, yet does this not suggest the 
pageant wagon of old, which was wont to wheel the miracle 
and mystery plays of the fifteenth century through the 
streets of Chester, Coventry, and York? It will be curious 
to follow the outcome of such an undertaking. "This is 
not to be a mere travelling booth," declares Mr. Francis. 
"Hamlet" and "Macbeth" in a theatre booth were Mr. 
Francis's first introductions to drama when he was a boy. 
A new play was put on every night, with an entrance fee 
of three pence. " We sat around the fire in a bucket," he 
writes, "staring and hypnotised, we boys, while the har- 
dened men about town cracked nuts and lifted the blas^ 
ginger beer bottle." 

It would seem that one of the strongest forces with which 
the Welsh National Drama Company would have to con- 
tend is the spirit of Calvinism which has so long held the 
Welsh people in its grip. From what Mr. Francis has to 
say, I glean that these pioneers who are at the head of the 
drama movement girded themselves bravely for a long and 
arduous fight, inasmuch as instances had been known 
where actors were denounced as emissaries of the devil 
himself, and were brought up to render an account before 
the various chapel authorities. Yet these pioneers found 
nothing to fight. "In the main," Mr. Francis asserts, 
"the chapel people have been with us, and the London 
Union of Welsh Chapel Literary Societies made us sit up 
and think when they, last winter, produced under their 
auspices a play that is the most biting attack on Welsh 
Nonconformity yet written." 

Indeed, change is befalling the Welsh people, and two 
of the most vital aspects of Mr. Francis's play, now that 
I know something of the man, are the national and 

[ix] 



INTRODUCTION 



autobiographical influences in almost every line of the 
text. The sincerest work is that which is drawn from 
the innermost recesses of one's heart and one's conviction. 
*' Change" shows a realization of all that is significant in 
the modern spirit settling over Wales; it reveals a young 
man's own deep-rooted political faith. But though it be 
autobiographical and national, the great literary value of 
"Change" lies in the very fact that it is not insular in 
spirit as is so much of the work of the Irish playwrights. 
With all these new forces at work within the author, it is 
surprising how lacking in conscious pose "Change" really 
is. Nevertheless, through correspondence it has been my 
privilege to learn something of Mr. Francis's own tradition, 
and I cannot help but see in "Change" the intellectual 
features of the author. 

Mr. Francis has lived the life of Aberpandy in his own 
home town of Merthyr Tydfil, where he was born on Sep- 
tember 7, 1882. He was reared among the industrial people 
of South Wales, and has been bred in their traditions. He 
has gone the road of John Henry at the University; he has 
felt some of the industrial unrest of Lends; and through it 
all he has maintained a large part of the sanity of Gioilym. 
In his own person, he is representative of that new force 
which has entered Welsh life through the extension of 
education in the Intermediate Schools and colleges — a 
force which has done much to widen the breach between 
the older and younger generations — such a breach, for 
example, as almost disrupts the Price household. 

"Change" is national in so far as it represents truth- 
fully the industrial situation confronting the men in South 
Wales now and to-morrow. It depicts with understanding 
and sympathy, the religious, social, and economic problems 

[X] 



INTRODUCTION 



likely to confront the inhabitants of a small Welsh town, 
dependent upon the coal and iron industries for existence. 
In its labour disputes, in its riots, in its expression of 
political thought, it reflects the whole trend of Welsh 
sentiment and development for two generations. Mr. 
Francis knows the workings of that mill of destiny which 
destroys the happiness of the Price family. So many 
things in Wales have been, as he expresses it, of sudden 
creation. With full-grown force these things have swept 
in on the Welsh people like an unexpected tide, and 
loosed the younger generation from their moorings. The 
peasantry and the leading men of the industrial districts 
gave the money for the founding of their university, 
situated at Aberystwyth, by the sea. Little did they 
think what instrument they were putting into the hands 
of the younger generation; little did they realize what the 
scientific spirit of inquiry would do when it grappled with 
such a religious revival as that headed by Evan Roberts. 
This suggestion of the local problem throws infinite light 
upon the character of John Henry, the preacher-boy. The 
inevitable cleavage amidst such forces results in tragedy, 
especially where we have human nature that clings so 
tenaciously, as the Welsh nature does, to what it believes. 
"I think," Mr. Francis comments, "we take things more 
grimly than our Saxon neighbours. Whatever we do, we 
go the whole way. Once we were tremendous Catholics. 
We've also been tremendous Calvinists. Once we fought 
in the last ditch for Charles Stuart and the Divine Right 
of Kings. Now we are in the advance guard of democracy, 
and Lloyd George is our great man. But, remember, 
whichever side it has been, we've always been it utterly.'''' 
No man could have written "Change," holding casual 
[xi] 



INTRODUCTION 



views on social questions. However truthfully an artist 
depicts conditions as they strike his outward eye, he cannot 
help but colour them with intellectual comment of some 
kind. All during his novitiate years in Wales, Mr. Francis 
absorbed unconsciously the meaning of what was taking 
place around him. He saw Socialism slowly gain hold in 
Wales. In his childhood he heard his elders argue the 
cause of Liberalism, and during his school years he used 
to follow in the trail of the ever-present political orator. 
Ostensibly, so he writes, he did this in order to record 
their speeches in shorthand, which he was studying at the 
time. Gradually the voice of labour began to be heard, 
*'So you see," declares Mr. Francis, "once revolution gets 
into Welsh blood, there is not going to be much hedging, 
or over-politeness, or concern for the sub-sections of a 
schedule. The tide of labour-thought was on the flow. 
Merthyr Tydfil used to return two Liberal members. I 
was at Kier Hardie's first meeting. He was returned with 
a Liberal Merthyr did not know. I, a small boy in the 
audience, did not know. But the step was pregnant with 
significance." 

With this training, there gradually began to dawn upon 
Mr. Francis the deep import of the labour disputes he heard 
around him. He went through precisely the same sort of a 
strike which he has, in "Change," painted with skill and 
understanding. His recollection is vivid of the appearance 
of soldiers, and the charge of the police. The killing of 
Gwilym on the wall is a slice of life from the history of 
Danelly. 

As a part of all this, Mr. Francis did not at first measure 
the full weight of the social revolution at hand. Then he 
went to college, having thrown his sympathies in with the 

[xii] 



INIRODUCTION 



socialists, and having joined the Fabian Society. All this 
while he was reading Ibsen, and in diverse ways fitting 
himself for newspaper work. But after he had taken his 
degree, he went to Paris and taught English, returning as 
teacher to Wales, where in a coal and iron town, Ebbw Vale, 
he again felt the pulse of something new throbbing through 
the land. 

Then he moved to London and found, as so many have 
found before him, that in order to see his own country 
aright, a man must go away from it and view it from afar. 
He has remained in London ever since, teaching in a 
Grammar School, and hearing the loud murmurs of dis- 
satisfaction in South Wales. Sometimes he has paid visits 
to the overwrought industrial districts. "It was impos- 
sible not to feel," claims Mr. Francis, "that there was 
arising something grimmer and more desperate than the 
old Liberal-Labour attitude, or even the 'official' socialist 
outlook that came next. The men often refused to follow 
their leaders. They sometimes turned on them savagely." 
What was to be the next step? Just what Lewis attempts 
to preach in "Change." 

"It is obvious," continues Mr. Francis, "that old 
methods of industrial warfare are being suspected as in- 
adequate. I do not think there is any organized syn- 
dicalism in South Wales — nothing to speak of. But the 
point of view from which it rises is there, and is growing. 
There is something about syndicalism that is not quite 
consistent with the Gascon temperament. French people 
take to it. The Welsh may take to it. It is there — the 
next stage, perhaps — just unfolding. It follows, there- 
fore, that the newest miners' leaders are always the most 
violent." 



[xiii] 



INTRODUCTION 



These political demarcations are very excellently il- 
lustrated in the social views of John Pricey Dai Matthews, 
Twm Powell, and Lewis. Of course the situation in the 
play is more or less intensified, as it should be in drama, 
and it is this added force which makes "Change" rather a 
play of to-morrow than of to-day. "Though the forces 
are arrayed as I try to point out," explains Mr. Francis, 
*'the new rebels have not quite as much political influence 
as I have given them — the reason being, I think, that 
many of them are not voters, while the old workmen and 
the trading classes are still powerful, usually householders, 
etc., making a solid phalanx. If the proposed bill for 
Manhood Suffrage goes through, one of the first things I 
shall look for will be an accession of strength to the young 
men." 

Personally I do not contend that all this interesting in- 
formation is necessary for the general appreciation of 
"Change," but it has everything to do with the evolution 
of " Change " as coming from the author. I feel that in the 
light of what has here been narrated, we are better able to 
understand Price's tradition as opposed to Socialism, 
Agnosticism, the new Theology, and all the other products 
of Satan against which he rails. So can we the better 
realize the rights of his case in the light of the sacrifices he 
has made. To the average theatregoer all this will appear 
very undramatic. Especially in America we are not prone 
to argue our political faith before audiences with the force 
of newspaper editorials; we must have the outward situa- 
tion in order to stir interest. The first three acts of 
"Change" are intensive; this Glamorgan drama is one of 
character — individuals struggling for the maintenance of 
their own standards. In all works of art, so Coventry 

[ xiv 1 



INTRODUCTION 



Patmore claims, there is a point of rest; particularly in 
drama where all of the characters are supposed to be 
involved in the action of the piece, there are one or 
two persons whose attitudes, or whose views, may 
be regarded as normal. In '* Change," we are able to 
apply this theory to Gwilym and Sam Thatcher. The in- 
valid brother, poetic by temperament and loving by nature, 
is a mean between the extremes of John Price and his other 
two sons; we realize this in that speech of his where he 
defends the narrowness of the old brigade. He is the 
apostle of moderation. Mr. Francis is here expressing him- 
self; he stands, holding the scales with weights in equal 
balance. Then there is the opportunist philosophy of 
Sam with which the majority of our audiences will agree. 
He is the one real creation of the play, for he depends on 
no problem, on no social theory for his attitude toward Ufe. 
He is an observer — what one critic wisely called the 
Chorus of the play. In his aptness at most poignant mo- 
ments, lies the humour of the play. But it is purely 
humour of character. 

At the end of the third act of "Change" there begins 
what is commonly known as action in the theatre. With 
no semblance of trickery, Mr. Francis resorts to a trick 
which has become so shop-worn in the hands of less ar- 
tistic and less earnest playwriters. No better handling of 
a scene off stage can be imagined than that of the riot, 
where Gwen is told of the killing of Gwilym. From that 
point to the close of the drama, the emphasis is shifted 
from the inteUectual to the human and emotional. One 
can almost indicate the exact spot where Mr. Francis re- 
belled against the intellectual, and threw his favour on the 
side of the mother who is the real one upon whom the whole 

[xv] 



INTRODUCTION 



tragedy falls. It is this sudden shifting to the human as- 
pects of his characters that gives an unnecessary incom- 
pleteness to "Change." In neither John Henry nor Lewis 
is there any realization of what they must face in the 
future. 

But is it necessary for a drama of this type to offer a 
solution? Mr. Galsworthy's "Strife," having shown the 
innate inability of both capital and labour to come to a 
compromise understanding, leaves his problem almost where 
he found it. His other plays are equally as non-committal. 
"Change" simply states in a moving drama what Tenny- 
son put into a poetic line, that "the old order changeth, 
yielding place to new." And in that transformation, some- 
where a tragedy is certain to take place; somewhere the 
innocent are bound to suffer. 

As a concession to the management that brought 
"Change" to America, where it was produced in New 
York, at the Booth Theatre, on the evening of January 
27, 1914, Mr. Francis had his final curtain fall at the 
moment when John Price, witness to the spiritual agony 
of the mother whose sons have left her, consents to write 
John Henry in conciliatory tone. While there may be a 
human justice to warrant such a compromise, I cannot 
but feel that "Change" was conceived in the spirit of 
tragedy, and as tragedy it should be taken. It is there- 
fore with some gratification that I find the original ending 
has been retained in the present edition. It seems to me 
that the snapping of Gwen's spirit as the curtain falls is one 
of those necessary moments which the whole structure of 
the play demands. 

"Change" met with a most deplorable and undeserved 
reception in America. Its first week was as disastrous as 

[xvil 



INTRODUCTION 



that of Mr. Charles Kenyon's "Kindling," and though ef- 
forts were made to save so worthy a production from dis- 
aster, it failed to have the later success which "Kin- 
dling" attained. This American repudiation in no way 
detracts from the significance of "Change" as a serious 
work of art. It is not a flawless play either in its struc- 
tural elements or in its intellectual capacity. But it is a 
big play, showing the earnestness of a new author. Wales 
has every reason to be proud that its theatre activity has 
begun with such a drama as "Change." Some say that 
it failed because it was advertised as a Welsh play, and 
theatregoers believed they would be offered an enter- 
tainment in a strange tongue. Others lay the cause of its 
non-success to the fact that its local problems had to do 
with Wales instead of America. Yet to my mind the 
very spirit of unrest which permeates every line of 
"Change" lifts it out of its atmosphere, and gives it 
meaning wherever there is industrial unrest, wherever 
the old order is pitted against the new; wherever there 
is a struggle for survival, social, economic, or religious. 
It makes no difference whether a man mixes in his talk 
phrases that are unfamiliar to the ear. One finds such 
phrases in "Change," since Mr. Francis for the sake of 
atmosphere had to adopt some suggestion of local speech. 
He therefore resorted to a common characteristic among 
families in Wales who speak English; he brought in familiar 
Welsh terms that have the force of household proverbs. 
Nevertheless, faithful as Mr. Francis may have been to 
the requirements of Lord Howard de Walden's prize com- 
petition, "Change" is bigger than its environment; it 
is, in fact, so far-reaching and inclusive as to be vague at 
moments. The realist's method has here been practised 

[xvii] 



INTRODUCTION 



with a simplicity that has been scarcely surpassed in 
the history of the "new " drama. After reading " Change," 
however, we are tempted to ask whether we have not a 
right to expect that the future realist should strive to 
sound a stronger note of spiritual exaltation, along with 
the exercise of an intellect w^hich aims to be fair and just, 
and brooks no deception. 

Montrose J. Moses. 
New York City, July 20, 1914. 



[xviii ] 



Presented by the Incorporated Stage Society at the 
Haymarket Theatre, December 7th, 8th, and 9th, 1913, 
with the following cast: 

John Price Harding Thomas 

Gwen, His Wife Lilian Mason 

Gwilym Price Harold West 

Sam Thatcher Frank Ridley 

Isaac Pugh Tom Owen 

Levyis Price R. A. Hopkins 

John Henry Price John Howell 

Dai Matthews Gareth Hughes 

Twm Powell William Hopkins 

Jinnie Pugh Doris Owen 

Lizzie Ann, a Poor Relation . . . Eleanor Daniels 

Play produced by Tom Owen 



Ar arferion Cymru gynt 
Newid ddaeth o rod i rod; 

Mae cenhedlaeth wedi mynd, 
A chenhedlaeth wedi dod. 
Ceiriog. 



CHANGE 

act I 



CHARACTERS IN THE PLAY 



John Price An old collier 

Gwen His wife 

John Henry '\ 

Lewis > Their three sons 

Gvyilym J 

Sam Thatcher Their lodger 

Lizzie Ann A 'poor relation 

Isaac Pugh 
Twm Powell 
Dai Matthews 
Jinnie Pugh 

Time: The Present 

The action of the Play takes place in the living-room of 
the Prices' cottage on the Twmp, Aherpandy. 

Act I. A Thursday Afternoon, 

Act II. Sunday Evening, 

Act III. Monday Morning. 

Act IV, Afternoon of a day five weeks later. 



ACT I 

Scene: Living-room of the Prices' cottage on the 
Twmpy Aberpandy. 

The walls are covered with paper, bold in design, but 
now rather faded. On the left, looking from stage 
to audience, there is, in the back corner, a door lead- 
ing to the road, and, in the middle of the wall, a 
window with simple curtains and a plain holland 
blind. Through the window is seen a rough wall. 
On the right, in the middle of the wall, is an old- 
fashioned fireplace. The fire has not been lit, 
and there is a cheap paper screen before the bars. 
On the mantelpiece above are brass candlesticks, 
clock, flat-irons, tin tea-canisters, etc. In the 
corner, up stage from fireplace, is a door leading 
to the back-kitchen, and thence to the little garden. 
On the same side, down stage on the other side of 
the fireplace, is another door, leading to the parlor. 
The furniture is humbly serviceable, and has seen 
long usage. At the back, in a central position, 

[3] 



CHANGE 



stands an old dresser hung with jugs and set with 
plates. A simple vase filled with sweet peas is on 
the second shelf. On the lowest shelf stands a row 
of well-worn hooks, and two small book-shelves, well 
stocked, hang one on each side of the dresser. There 
are five ordinary kitchen chairs, usually arranged 
in the following way — one a little down stage from 
the window, one near the parlor door, one near the 
kitchen door, and one on each side of the dresser. 
There is also a high-backed wooden armchair. 
In the middle of the room stands an old-fashioned 
round table, covered with a faded red cloth. At the 
back, one on each side of the dresser, are pictures 
of Gladstone and C. H. Spurgeon. In other places 
are pictures of Henry Richard and some of the well- 
known preachers. 

When the curtain rises, John Price is seated to the 
right of table in the armchair; Gwen, to the left, 
in the chair drawn up from the window. 

Price is a rugged, hard-visaged man about sixty years 
old. He has the collier's usual pallor, and there is 
a blue mark, caused by coal dust, prominent on 
his cheek-bone. A ragged rim of gray-white beard 
runs, below his chin, from ear to ear. He is dressed 
in an old suit, and wears a muffler over a shirt of 
[4] 



CHANGE 



gray flannel. His movements are slow and heavy y 
suggesting the "power of endurance^ patient hut 
somewhat grim, that is the basis of his nature. 
Alone with his wife at the opening of the play, he 
shows, as in his attitude to Gwilym throughout, a 
certain rough tenderness, which is not seen in his 
relations with the other characters in the play. 
GwEN, his wife, is of a different type — a gentle, soft- 
voiced woman, whose face is very kind and a little 
sad. Even in her smile there is a certain touch of 
wistfulness, suggesting some under-life in which 
memory and emotion have greatest power. She 
is a well-preserved little woman of sixty, with white 
hair. Her dress is simple but very neat. When 
the play begins, she is busily mending stockings, 
of which there is a stock in a basket which lies on 
the table near at hand. Price, with glasses on the 
end of his nose and his face screwed into an expres- 
sion of fierce concentration, is addressing an envelope 
into which he puts a letter. He closes the envelope 
with a hearty bang. 

Price [with a sigh of relief]. Well, thank good- 
ness, that's done. I've just written to Lizzie Ann. 
You'll have her back here on Monday. 

[5] 



CHANGE 



GwEN. I didn't think, when I let her go down 
to Llantrisant, that I was going to miss her like this. 
Of course it would not be right to stop her, and 
them expecting a baby in the house in seven or 
eight weeks. 

Price. Well, anyhow, back she'll be on Monday. 

GwEN. It isn't so much the extra work on me 
I'm thinking of, but I miss her about the place here. 
She hasn't got too much sense, and you couldn't 
say she's such a great deal to look at — but, some- 
how, I miss her old face about the house. 

Price [stretching himself]. I'm glad I've done 
those two letters. It's a job I can't abide — writing 
letters. Comes of having so little schooling, I sup- 
pose. 

GwEN. Have you finished the letter to Myfanw', 
John? 

Price [talcing up two or three written sheets]. Aay, 
my gel. Finished at last! 

GwEN [dropping the stocking to her lap]. And 
you've put in that Gwilym is to go in five weeks' 
time? 

Price [with a little sigh]. Aay, my gel, I've put 
it in. 

GwEN. I don't know how I'm going to part with 
[6] 



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him, John. I don't know how I'm going to do it. 
It's an awful thing to part like this, and me his 
mother! I can't understand, John, why God puts 
people together, if they've got to part after all. 

Price. Don't you get low-hearted, Gwen fach. 
It's all for the best. You know yourself that Doctor 
Willie Jenkins was saying only the other day that 
part of Australia is the very place for a man in 
consumption. It's lucky for us Myfanw' asked us 
to send him out, and her knowing that he's ill, too. 

Gwen. Well, Myfanw'U be lucky to get him. 
Who could she get better to keep the accounts on 
the farm, and him writing such pretty bits of poetry 
— in English as well as Welsh? I suppose you put 
in the letter about him winning the prize at the 
Eisteddfod in Mountain Ash? 

Price. Of course, Gwen ! Of course! 

Gwen. And only five weeks now before he'll 
be going! I don't want to stand in his light, John. 
But,, oh, it's awful soon to lose him ! 

Price [with rough tenderness]. Think, Gwen, 
think what it means ! A few years, and then, after 
all the praying and heart-breaking we've had for 
him, we'll have him back again — a fine, strong man.' 

Gwen. Aay, John, I know, I know! That's 
[7] 



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what I am trying to tell myself all the time. That's 
all I'm asking of the Almighty — to let me live to 
see our Gwilym have his health again. There's 
Lewis and John Henry — they can fight their way 
for themselves; but for our Gwilym, poor boy, it's 
different. If only I am spared for that — to see 
him fine and strong and his face all brown with 
health — once, only just once before I die, and 
then I think I will go singing from the world! 

Price [looking over the letter to Myfanwy]. How 
d'you spell "endeavoring," Gwen? 

GwEN [very thoughtful]. "Endeavoring?" Let 
me see now! Christian Endeavor Society. E-n-d 

— I don't know ! Better for you, John bach, if 
you'd written in Welsh! 

Price. Oh, indeed ! And let her husband think 
I haven't got any English, and him and me not 
speaking when they left Aberpandy? No fear! 
[Looking over the letter again.] Aay! If I'd only 
had a bit of schooling ! The chances they get to-day 

— board-school, intermediate, college! [He sighs 
regretfully.] 

Gwen [after a pause]. 1 wonder what he'll look 
like! 
Price. Look like? Who? 
[8] 



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GwEN. Our Gwilym — when he comes back 
strong and well. [In a musing tone.] It's a fine 
thing, John, for a woman to look at her children 
and see them all strong men, so strong that they 
could crush her with their hands, and those hands 
never lifted but in kindness. Still there's some- 
thing, too — I can't explain — in the child that's 
weak and suffering keeps him very near your heart. 
It's like having one who didn't grow up like the 
rest, one that you must be always taking care of. 

Price [with a friendly rebuke]. Gwen fach, you're 
always thinking of the boys! 

Gwen [with a touch of surprise]. Well, 'ent I 
their mother? D'you know, John, I can't help 
thinking Gwilym doesn't fancy his food as he ought 
to these last few days. That's the worst of this 
old hot weather! I was saying this morning at 
breakfast if I could only get a chicken I'd make a 
drop of broth nice and tasty. But it would cost a 
good bit would a chicken, and it's getting rather 
tight on us now, what with the strike and saving 
up enough to send him away 

Price [bitterly]. Aay, the strike! One after an- 
other — strike, strike, strike ! Couldn't you get 
one on old account from Parry the Fish Shop? 
[9] 



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GwEN. They aren't giving old account to any- 
body now. They lost so much bad debts in the 
last strike. 

VmcE [angrily]. Aay, there you are ! [He gets up 
and takes a few steps about the room.] And that's 
the lot our Lewis is in with! And a respectable 
man like me, that's paid his way all his life, has got 
to suffer for a gang of rodneys willing to shout with 
any fool that lifts his finger. [Looking out through 
the window.] They're down there now in the Drill 
Hall picking their new candidate for Parliament — 
and a fine beauty they will pick, too ! 

GwEN [who has been pursuing a course of private 
reflection]. But there's one thing, John — I dare- 
say I could get a bit of the best end of the neck and 
make him a bit of something tempting- [John's 
anger collapses.] We shall have to watch the money 
pretty close these next few weeks in order to get 
him some more things. I wouldn't like Myfanw' 
to see him without everything decent and respect- 
able — three of each, say, and p'raps a dozen collars. 
[She goes on with her mending.] 

Price [somewhat grimly]. Oh, he'll be respectable 
enough for my sister Myfanw', don't you fear! I 
don't see that she's got grounds to be over particular. 
[10] 



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GwEN. You mean, John, about her running 
away with the barman? 

Price. Aay, I do! 

GwEN. Well, she married him; that's some- 
thing, anyhow. 

Price. She was a disgrace to the family was 
our Vanw'. There was her father had been a deacon 
all those years, and me just made superintendent of 
the Sunday-school! 

GwEN. Well, John, it isn't for me to say any- 
thing against your father, and him in his grave to- 
day. But he was a hard man — too hard and too 
cold for a girl like Vanw'. 

Price [in an injured tone]. He was a respectable, 
God-fearing man and died without any one being 
able to say he owed so much as a ha'penny. And he 
lived in his own house for twenty years — freehold, 
mind you, too! 

GwEN. All the same, John, I don't agree with 
bringing up children as if there was always a corpse 
in the house. And she was a strange girl was My- 
fanw' — all life and fire and feeling. And the way 
she used to sing! I can't help thinking our John 
Henry is growing up to look the living image of his 
Aunt Myfanw'. 

[U] 



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Price. There is a bit of likeness, it's true. And 
there's no denying he's got a grand voice. 

GwEN. And there's something about his nose 
and chin, too. Have you put anything about him 
in the letter .^^ 

Price. Oh, yes! [Resuming his seat and read- 
ing.] " We are expecting our John Henry back from 
college " 

GwEN. University, John, University ! 

Price [making an alteration]. "From the Uni- 
versity in Cardiff to-morrow or the day after. I 
think I told you before that he is preparing for the 
ministry. He is now in his second year, and next 
year he will be trying for the B. A. " 

GwEN [to herself with great gusto].. The Rev. 
John Henry Price, B. A. 

Price. " Perhaps he will study for the B. D. after- 
ward, but that isn't quite settled yet. Fortunately 
— [GwEN looks up at the long word] — fortunately 
he won a County Exhibition, so that we don't have 
to keep him altogether." 

GwEN. We couldn't have done it, John, not with 
poor Gwilym bad as he is. It's been hard enough, 
even with Sam lodging here. 

Price [letting the letter drop to the table]. That 
[12] 



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was a grand sermon he gave us last Christmas, 
Gwen — a grand sermon ! There aren't many not 
yet out of college would venture on a text like that 
— *'In the beginning was the Word" — "Yn y 
dechreuad yr oedd y Gair." I can't understand 
him sending Isaac Pugh's William Ewart up to 
Treherbert the other Sunday. Must have been a 
great disappointment to them up there. 

Gwen. Working hard for the exams he is, no 
doubt, because he hasn't written home these last 
few weeks — nothing beyond a couple of picture 
postcards. 

Price. I can't say Isaac Pugh was very en- 
thusiastic about the sermon last Christmas, though 
the other deacons praised it beyond. 

Gwen. Well, you see, John, Isaac Pugh's Wil- 
liam Ewart is studying for a preacher, too, so p'raps 
we oughtn't to expect it. 

Price. No. He couldn't stomach it was our 
John Henry won the County Exhibition, and not 
his William Ewart. And then he's so set on giving 
the call to Jones of Dowlais. He's getting that 
polite, is Isaac Pugh, I can hardly abide talking to 
him. 

Gwen. I suppose you've told Myfanw* about the 
[13] 



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call to Horeb? She'll sure to be interested, and 
her sitting in the corner by the harmonium from the 
time she was baptised. 

Price [taking up the letter again], "You'll be 
glad to hear that, after being without a regular 
pastor since Roberts and his gang started the split 
at Bethania, we're going to give a call in Horeb at 
last." [He pauses a moment and reflects.] I don't 
know, Gwen, if you've been thinking what I've 
been thinking about this call. 

Gwen [calmly]. Yes, John, I have. 

Price [with enthusiasm]. Well, it would be a 
grand thing if John Henry had finished college and 
could have it, wouldn't it now.^^ Of course, it's only 
seven pound a month, but he'd be able to work 
it up. 

Gwen [laying down her mending]. And he'd be 
able to live at home with us, and I could look after 
his clothes. What we'd have to do would be to 
turn Lewis's bedroom into a study, and Lewis could 
have Gwilym's room in the back. Anyhow, John 
Henry will be here till October. That's one com- 
fort; for it's a strange house it will be to me with 
Gwilym going across the water. [She sighs.] Five 
weeks! Only five more weeks! 
[14] 



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Price. Dewch nawr, Gwen! Dewch! It's no 
use looking at it like that. 

Gwen. I can't help it, John bach. I'm as God 
made me. Somehow, I feel afraid — afraid of the 
waiting and the waiting, thinking of him day dnd 
night, and him away in foreign parts. I'll be seeing 
his face every hour of the day, if I only shut my 
eyes, and his voice will keep on coming back to me 
as I go about the house and out in the garden by 
his bank of flowers. [Saying this, she gets up slowly 
and puts the basket of stockings on the dresser. Then 
turning a little, she happens to look through the window. 
She starts, and begins to talk more briskly.] Tan i 
marw! Here's Gwilym and Sam coming up from 
the crossing, and I haven't so much as laid the tea! 
[She takes the white cloth from the dresser drawer.] 
There's talk you do, John! [Spreading cloth on 
table.] I don't like the boys to come home, and 
things not ready. A woman can't expect to keep 
much of a hold on her children if she doesn't look 
after their comfort. [She bustles into the back- 
kitchen, and a rattle of crockery is heard.] Pity Lizzie 
Ann isn't here, too! She may be dull; I'm always 
telling her she's not quite sixteen ounces — [bustling 
in with a basket containing cups and saucers] — but 
[15] 



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she's handy, and it's nice to see her old face about 
the house. And I'll get that drop of broth ready for 
his supper. [She takes vase of flowers from the dresser 
and puts it on table. Steps are heard without.] 

Enter Gwilym and Sam Thatcher 

Sam is a man of forty-two^ but looks older y his 
hair being thin and grizzled, his face tanned 
by exposure and adorned with a ragged gray 
moustache. He has lost his left arm, and 
the empty sleeve is fixed into the pocket of 
his rough blue coat. His trousers, strapped 
up under the knee, are of old moleskin with 
^' cross** pockets, to the edge of which he 
hooks his thumb in an easy attitude. Under 
his arm he carries a red flag, rolled up. His 
accent proclaims him a Cockney, and his 
general air of suffering superiority to Aber- 
pandy and all its works indicates a haughty 
metropolitan outlook. 

Gwilym is a young man of twenty-three or 
twenty-four, simply and neatly dressed. 
His thin, pale face tells of disease. His 
expression suggests thoughtfulness and a 
fund of sympathy, purifled of humbug by 
[16] 



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quiet humor. He speaks in reflective man- 
ner, often searching the listener's face as 
if given to probing through the surface of 
things for the causes beneath. In his bear- 
ing toward others there is the natural courtesy 
of one born with fine instincts. He is 
treated by all with the greatest kindnesSy 
concern for his welfare being the common 
element that keeps the household together. 

Price [with great sympathy]. Wei, Gwilym, ffor' 
ma'i nawr, machan-i? 

GwEN. Where youVe been all the time, boy 
bach? And the weather so hot like this. 

Price. I was telling your mother after dinner 
you ought to lie down a bit in the afternoons. 
Gwilym. That's all right, 'nhad! 
GwEN. Sit you down, *nghariad-i. You shall 
have your tea in a minute. 

[GwEN hurries into the back-kitchen. Gwilym 
moves toward the chair to the right of the 
dresser y but the old man, murmuring, "All 
right y my boy, all right,'* anticipates him 
and brings up the chair, placing it on the 
left of his own chair, which remains as 
[17] 



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before. Sam, having 'placed flag on the 
dresser, takes the chair on which Gwen 
formerly sat. This is his usual place at 
table. The three men seat themselves. 
GwiLYM takes vase and examines the blos- 
soms with the eye of a good judge.] 
Sam [mopping his forehead]. It's a scorcher, boss 
— a fair scorcher; that's wot it is! If this 'ere 
weather goes on on top of orl the bloomin' eloquence 
we're 'avin' — there'll be trouble 'ere in Aberpandy. 
Mawk my words, boss, I'm tellin' yer nah. 

[GwEN comes in with the teapot and a large 
plate of bread and butter and a plate of 
small round cakes. She takes the chair 
from left of dresser and sits on Sam's right. 
Lewis's place — between Gwilym and 
GwEN — is thus left vacant. Gwen pours 
out the tea.] 
Gwen. Where have you been, Gwilym? 
Gwilym. Well, I went for a stroll as far as the 
Institute, and then I thought I'd wait to hear whom 
they had selected as candidate. 

Price. That feller Pinkerton, I suppose. 
Sam. Got it, boss, got it fust taime! 

[Price shakes his head in disgust] 
[18] 



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GwEN. Bread and butter, Sam? 
Sam. Skooliki da, as yer say dahn 'ere missis. 
Skooliki da! 

[Knock at door, 
GwEN. Come in. 

[Isaac Pugh appears in the doorway — an 
old man in a shabby suit. Relations be- 
tween him and Price having been strained 
by the affairs of Horeb, his attitude is rather 
formal, but, at the same time, touched with a 
suggestion of meek apology.] 
GwEN [coldly polite]. Ah! Shwt ych-chi, Isaac 
Pugh? Dewch miwn. 

Pugh. Shwt ych-chi 'ma heddy'? [Hesitating 
in doorway.] Have tea you are? 

GwEN. Yes, yes. Come in you. [Pointing to 
the chair by the parlor door.] Will you take a cup 
with us? 

Pugh [advancing across the room]. No, indeed! 
No, indeed ! Dim, diolch. Just had my tea, I have. 
[He sits down.] 

GwEN. There's plenty of welcome, mind you 
now. 

Pugh. Oh, yes! I know, I know! [To Price.] 
I suppose you've heard the news? 
[19] 



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Price. Aay, I've heard. 

PuGH. Well, I never thought I'd live to see a 
man like that Pinkerton being Member of Parlia- 
ment for the valley — never ! 

GwiLYM. They say he's a very able man, Mr. 
Pugh. 

Price. It's men like him are the curse of South 
Wales to-day. Who is he, I'd like to know, that he 
should be made a proper "god" of.^^ I've been in 
the valley here now for sixty years. I remember 
Aberpandy before ever the Powell-Griffiths sank 
the first pit, and the sheep of Pandy Farm were 
grazing quiet where the Bryndu Pit is now. And 
I never so much as heard talk of this fellow Pinker- 
ton till two or three years ago. 

Pugh. Well, I thought it was understood, long 
enough ago, too, that Evan Davies would get it 
when George Llewelyn went. 

GwiLYM. He'd have had it ten years ago, Mr. 
Pugh. He might have had it five years ago. But 
there's a change come over the valley. 

Price. Aay, Gwilym, a change, a sad change, 

and a bad one. A good, steady man is Evan Davies 

— a tidy, respectable man, and been a deacon for 

twenty years I know of. I remember the time when 

[20] 



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we went down the valley together to see Gladstone. 
[He looks up at Gladstone's portrait on the wall.] Aay 

— yr hen Gladstone! There was a man for you! 
And look at this feller Pinkerton. D'you ever hear 
of him so much as darkening the door of a chapel 

— or even of the Church for a matter of that? Why 
can't he hold his old meetings on some other day 
than Sunday? Isn't it hard enough to keep the 
congregation together without him and his meetings? 
"Six days shalt thou labor" — "Chwe diwrnod y 
gweithi" — isn't it written? But, of course, that 
don't count to-day. 

GwEisi [pouring out a cup of tea]. Ah, yes! It 
isn't like it was, when we'd have to bring the benches 
out of the vestry on a Sunday night. [Giving the 
cup of tea to her husband that he may pass it on,] 
Take you this in your hand by there now, Isaac 
Pugh. 

PuGH. Well, indeed now, I didn't want it. But 

since you're so kind [He takes the tea and stirs 

it with vigor. Then drinks it.] 

GwEN [holding out the plate of bread and butter]. 
Sure now you won't have a bit of bread and butter? 
There's a nice thin piece for you. 

PuGH. Well, indeed, Mrs. Price fach, since 
[21] 



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you're so pressing [He gets up and takes the 

piece of bread and butter.] 

GwEN. I suppose, Isaac Pugh, like us, you're 
looking forward to them coming home from college. 

Price [lying hospitably]. I heard your William 
Ewart did very well up in Treherbert the other 
Sunday. 

Pugh. I had a letter from William Ewart this 
morning. [He hesitates a moment, looking furtively 
from Price to Gwen.] Have you heard from John 
Henry lately? 

Gwen. Only a few picture postcards these last 
few weeks, but we haven't worried him about it, 
and him studying for the examination. Awful 
things, those old examinations ! I hope his landlady 
is looking after him; though I must say she seemed 
a tidy little woman, if she was Church of England. 

Pugh [more or less to himself]. I wonder he hasn't 
written! [Changing the subject.] I suppose your 
Lewis has been working for Pinkerton, Price? 

Sam. Workin'? Workin'? Not'arf! 'E'sbeen 
at it ever since the other feller daied! There's one 
thing abaht Lewis, any'ah — 'e can tork. I've 
'card 'em in Trafalgar Square; IVe 'card 'em in 
'Yde Pawk; I've 'card 'em on Tahr rill (Tower 



CHANGE 



Hill). But I've never 'eard one as could better 
'im. Where 'e gits it from, I don't know. Arter 
electin' the candidite this arternewn, they 'ad a 
public meetin' over the quest'n of the blacklegs they 
say the mawsters are torkin' of bringin' in. And 
yer orter've 'card 'im! Sich shahtin,' sich waivin' of 
'is awms, and 'is eyes burnin' laike fire in 'is 'ead, 
and the people risin' to 'im laike as if 'e'd mesmer- 
ised 'em. Arter it was over, 'e was clean done and 
shaikin' laike a leaf. 'E's nothin' but a bundle of 
red-'ot feelin's is Lewis. But 'e's a smawt chap, if 
only 'e could keep 'is 'ead a bit — a smawt chap ! 

GwEN [with great pleasure]. There you are, 
John! Didn't I always tell you? And him left 
school when he was only fourteen, too! But there 
was no keeping him back. Off he went to the night- 
school every winter. And the books he was always 
buying — him only a collier, too ! 

GwiLYM. There's one thing about Lewis, whether 
you agree with him or not, you can't help feeling 
proud of him. 

GwEN. That's it, Gwilym, proud of him. That's 
it. You can't help it 

Price. Aay, there's a fat lot to be proud of. 
Fine ideas he's got hold of — all this here Socialism 



CHANGE 



and Agnosticism, as he calls it. Why, he's worse 
than the Unitarians ! 

GwEN [shocked]. Taw s6n, John! For shame on 
you ! Worse than the Unitarians ! 

Sam. Maind yer, I don't blime 'im. Ow, no! 
If I could tork laike 'im, I'd be a Socialist meself ter- 
morrer! It's only 'uman niture. And if I was a 
mawster, I'd do wot I bloomin' well laiked with my 
pits. That's only 'uman niture, tew! O' course 
this 'ere Socialism is orl tommy-rot, but since the 
men will 'ave it, why shouldn't Lewis give it 'em as 
well as anybody else? 

GwEN [innocently]. Of course. That's what I've 
been thinking. 

Sam. And if there's any pickin's ter be got aht of 
it, why shouldn't 'e git 'em as well as any other 
feller? 

GwiLYM. You wicked old cynic, Sam! 

Sam. Nah, me son, no nimes! Wot I sez is in 
this 'ere world yer've got ter use yer common sense; 
that's orl. Why shouldn't 'e git inter Parliament, as 
well as the rest of 'em — four 'undred a year nah, 
and a naice soft job 

Gwilym [looking over Sam's shoulder to the win- 
dow]. H'sh! Here he is! 

[24 1 



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Enter Lewis with a parcel under his arm. He is be- 
tween twenty-eight and thirty years of age. His 
face is pale^ clean-shaven, and very mobile. His 
darky intense eyes suggest great nervous energy, but 
his mouth is sensitive rather than strong. A loch 
of his waving black hair falls carelessly over his 
forehead. All his movements are rapid. His 
demeanor is always restless, and indicates a lack of 
repose. In speaking, he gesticulates with graceful 
vigor. His voice is sweet and resonant, and, when 
it rises to declamation, there is in it a faintly plain- 
tive note. 

GwEN [rising]. Well, Lewis, so you've come at 
last? I'll make you a cup of tea nice and fresh. 
[Taking teapot, she goes toward back-kitchen.] 

Lewis. One minute, ma'am, there's this. [He 
holds out the parcel.] 

GwEN [taking parcel]. What is it, Lewis? [Open- 
ing parcel.] Well, tan i marw, it's a chicken! Oh, 
Lewis bach, and you so busy making such grand 
speeches! How did you remember, boy bach? 

Lewis. Oh, I suppose I had it at the back of my 
head since you mentioned it this morning. Old 
Parry the Fish Shop had been worrying me to take 
[25] 



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a present since I taught him to ride a bicycle; so I 
just slipped down and called quits on the chicken. 
[He takes chair from near kitchen doory and goes to his 
place at the table.] Don't be long, ma'am, I've got to 
go to a committee. 

[GwEN goes into back-kitchen, lost in admira- 
tion of the bird.] 
Sam. And when yer come ter consider the saize 
of Parry, it would 'a' been a bit more appropriate if 
'e'd mide it a turkey. 

[GwiLYM sniggers. Lewis only smiles a little, 
vaguely.] 
Lewis. I saw you at the meeting, Gwilym. 
GwiLYM. Did you? Your speech was wonder- 
ful, Lewis. 

Lewis. Wasn't it rather hot there for you? 
GwiLYM. Well, it was a bit; but I didn't want to 
go away without hearing you. 

[The two brothers interchange smiles. There 
is evidently a great bond between them. 
GwEN comes in with the teapot, a cup and 
saucer, and a plate. She pours out a cup 
of tea for Lewis.] 
GwEN. Bread and butter, Lewis? 
Lewis. No, thanks, nothing to eat. 
[ 26 ] 



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GwEN [coaxingly], Dera nawr, dera! One of my 
round cakes, then? You won't turn up your nose 
at my tishen gron? 

Lewis [taking one of the cakes]. Thank you, ma'am. 
[He goes on with his tea, lost in thought.] 

GwEN. More tea, Sam? 

Sam. Well, diolk un vawer, missis. Diolk un 
vawer ! 

GwEN [pouring out Sam's tea]. Well, we'll have 
Lizzie Ann back on Monday. That's one thing, 
however. I missed her by me in chapel last Sunday, 
I can't tell you. [She resumes her seat.] 

PuGH. Talking of Horeb, Price, I had a little 
chat this morning with Rees the Top Shop and 
Powell the Stockings 

Price. Oh, indeed ! 

PuGH. They aren't so sure now, after all, it's 
Thomas Llanstephan ought to have the call. 

Price [with determination]. So you're trying to 
talk them round, are you, Isaac Pugh? 

PuGH. No, no! We just had a few words as I 
was passing 

Price. I tell you that Jones of Dowlais and his 
New Theology, as you call it, aren't going to put 
foot in Horeb. 

[27] 



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PuGH [insinuatingly]. But, Price bach, you can't 
deny he's just the man to draw the young people 

Price. We've got other business in Horeb, 
Isaac Pugh, than to draw the young people. We've 
got to preach the living truth to men that have got 
to die; and if the young people won't give heed, so 
much the worse for them on Judgment Day and for 
those who've blinded them. New Theology, indeed ! 

GwEN. What's it all about — this New Theology 
they're talking of? 

Price. It's making black white and white black. 
It's making religion neither one thing nor the other. 
It's treating the Devil himself as if he was one of the 
Twelve Apostles 

GwEN [dismissing the topic from her mind]. Well, 
if it goes against the Bible — of course, there's an 
end to it. 

Pugh. Well, indeed, for my own part, I prefer 
the old-fashioned preaching and a bit of hwyl here 
and there. 

GwEN. It's very pretty — a little bit of hwyl 
toward the end, very pretty ! 

Pugh. But the old fashion doesn't draw the 
young people. I can't stand by and see Horeb 

getting emptier and emptier 

[28] 



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Price. And I can't stand by either and see it 
go into the hands of them that's making a mockery 
of rehgion. I can't do it, Isaac Pugh. I'd just as 
soon see it go to the Roman CathoHcs. Who was it 
built Horeb up there on the hillside more than forty 
years ago? Men like your father and my father, and 
old Job Williams, and Roderick Rees the gaffer — 
sober, God-fearing men that you don't see here in 
Aberpandy to-day. And how was it built, Isaac 
Pugh? Have you forgot so soon? Every day, after 
coming home from the pit, every day we did a 
little, tired as we were, for the love of the cause. You 
were there, and I was there — young men just turned 
twenty — your father, my father, and all the others. 
Stone by stone we built it. With our own hands we 
built it, for the glory of His name. I've sat there, 
Sunday after Sunday, all these years. All that I 
have known noble and good, all that has given me 
power to go on from day to day, has come from that 
old chapel up there on the hill. And d'you think, 
Isaac Pugh, I'll stand by and see it lost without 
making a struggle? 

[GwEN sighs with a kind of pleasant melan- 
choly, as is her way when the talk is of 
bygone days. Lewis, who has listened to 
[29] 



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the latter part of his father* s speech, smiles 
somewhat contemptuously. Gwilym is look- 
ing from his father to Lewis, watching them 
keenly. Sam is staring at the ceiling, hoping 
that some one will change the subject.] 
PuGH. Aay, that's all very well, Price. Good 
days they were, I don't deny; and us able to pay the 
preacher so much as eleven pound a month. But 
now, mun, it's as much as we can do to raise 
seven. 

Price. There's things that matter more than 
money. 

PuGH. Not if you're treasurer of the chapel, as 
you'd find out in my place. Price. For my own part, 
I hope Jones of Dowlais will get it, however. 

Price. There's only one theology I know, and 
Jones of Dowlais can't alter it, nor all the other 
Joneses either. 

PuGH. It's the young people 

Sam [cheerfully]. Aw, well! Boys will be boys, 
yer know. Boys will be boys ! 

PuGH [mysteriously]. Aay, I've always said you 
never know how they'll turn out. [Lewis looks at 
him inquiringly.] No, no! I don't mean you, 
Lewis, I don't mean you. 

[30] 



CHANGE 



Price. Well, who d'you mean, then? 

PuGH [changing the topic again]. So you got 
Pinkerton nominated between you then, Lewis? 

Lewis. Yes, I don't think anybody would have a 
chance against him. There were a few who sup- 
ported Evan Davies, but I knew we'd get a major- 
ity for Pinkerton. 

PuGH. He's a proper firebrand, I think. I 
can't abide a man like that. None of the old stock 
here wanted him. 

Price [bitterly]. That don't count in Aberpandy 
now, Pugh. If you want advice to-day, you've got 
to listen to the boys. If you want to be heard at all, 
you must talk of nothing but strikes and the rights 
of the workingman. You must stir up strife all 
over the place 

Lewis [looking straight into his father^ s face]. 
Yes, you must stir up strife — all over the place. As 
long as Labor and Capital exist as they do now, you 
must stir up strife — all over the place. 

Pugh. There you are, Price. That's the kind of 
talk you've got to listen to now. That's the kind of 
thing that goes down with them to-day. 

Price [seriously]. Now listen to me, Lewis. If 
you and the like of you go on talking like this, and 
[31] 



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the temper of the men rising every day, sooner or 
later there'll be hell upon earth here in Aberpandy. 

Lewis. There's never been anything but hell 
upon earth here in Aberpandy; but it shan't be hell 
forever. 

PuGH. What's the matter with Aberpandy, 
Lewis? Your father and me have been living here 
now this sixty years — and it's good enough for us. 

Lewis. It may be, but it isn't good enough for 
me and the men I stand for. Here you are, you and 
my father, squabbling as to which of your candi- 
dates is to be given this job in Horeb — at star- 
vation wages. 

PuGH [indignantly]. Squabbling? D'you say 
squabbling? I'm sure 

Lewis. Aay, squabbling! D'you think we are 
going to lose our sleep over Jones of Dowlais or 
Thomas Llanstephan? There's another kind of 
fight going on here, if you only knew it. Labor and 
Capital are at grips, always, always! Whether 
we're working or whether we're striking, we're 
fighting that battle, day by day and hour by hour. 
And you're not in the fighting line. You're prison- 
ers of the past. It's tied your hands and it's blinded 

your eyes 

[32] 



CHANGE 



PuGH. Fine words, my boy; but wait you a 
bit 

Lewis [his voice rising as he begins to be carried 
away by the force of his own words]. The time for 
waiting is done with; it's time for doing now. All 
along youVe been waiting and compromising. You 
called yourselves " Liberal-Labor." Even your very 
name was compromise — and that's why you've 
never, never done anything at all. 

Price. I've done my duty all my life, and I've 
paid my way to the last ha'penny. 

Lewis. Yes, you have, I know. And what's the 
end of it all? You can scarcely sleep at night — now 
in your old age — because you've got to take a few 
shillings out of the Post Office in the time of need. 
You've had a long, gray life, and you lived it the 
best you knew. You haven't been a waster or a 
drunkard; but tell me — tell me honestly — are you 
so much better off than the man who is? Why, 
if this is all that's possible for men, if this is the be- 
ginning and the end, then I say that the sooner they 
drink themselves to death the better it will be for 
them. 

PuGH. You hear that. Price? You hear the 
kind of talk that's going on? 
[33] 



CHANGE 



Price [getting up and raising his voice]. I won't 
have this ungodhness in my house. D'you hear 
that? [Lewis rises y facing his father. His lips are 
set, his eyes ablaze. He shows signs of intense emo- 
tional strain.] If that's part of the New Gospel 
you talk about 

Lewis. Aay, that's part of it! There are terms 
on which it's cowardly to live, and those are the terms 
on which you and the like of you are living. You 
may be satisfied with slavery; but we are not 

PuGH. Slavery? 

Lewis. Aay, slavery! And there on Bryndu 
stands the pit that is your master. From the cradle 
to the grave it's been holding you in the hollow of 
its hand. The food you eat, the clothes you wear, 
the bed you lie in — it's master of them all, aay, 
almost of the very souls within you ! When it gives, 
it gives with grudging, and, when it gives no more, 
sooner or later you've got to tighten your belt and 
see the sorrow writing deep on the faces of the 
women. But it's not going on forever, I tell you; 
and all the cowardice and cant won't serve to 
save it. 

Price. No. We must leave it to loafers and 
unbelievers to put things right to-day. 
[34] 



CHANGE 



Lewis. Don't make a mistake. Men were 
never more earnest than they are now. There's 
something stirring in the dark. All over the wide 
earth it's stirring, and there's nothing can keep it 
still. Call it Socialism, Syndicalism, unrest, or 
revolution. Call it what you like. But it's the 
worker coming to his own at last through suffering 
and through struggle. And here in Aberpandy 
we're facing our share of the battle — we, the young 
men you make light of. And we're facing it not only 
for ourselves, but for the men and women to come 
after, who'll know the things we didn't know arid 
hardly dared to dream. [Taking his cap from dresser 
and going toward the door.] But you're not with us. 
You're looking back; we're looking forward. And 
because you're looking back, you can't understand 
what's going on about you day by day. 

[He goes out, Pugh and Price exchange fur- 
tive glances. Gwen follows Lewis's de- 
parturey moving a few steps toward the win- 
dow. Her face shows bewilderment, through 
which shines maternal pride. Gwilym 
watches his father with an expression touched 
with pity. Sam is smoking hard, with an 
appearance of critical appreciation.] 
[35 1 



CHANGE 



Sam. Well, I'm a tariff reformer, meself; but I 
don't maind allowin' 'e can tork. I enjoy listenin' 
to 'im, some'ah. O' course, it's only 'is enthewsi- 
asm — 'is Celtic enthewsiasm, I suppose yer'd 
call it. 

GwEN. There's a man he'd be in the pulpit! I 
always think he's just the man for the pulpit when I 
hear him going on like that. 

PuGH. I don't deny he's got power, Mrs. Price; 
but he's a strange chap — a strange chap. I can't 
understand him being his father's child ! 

GwiLYM. He's the child of his times, Mr. Pugh. 

GwEN. Well, you know, Isaac Pugh, if your 
children happen to be born clever, 'tisn't the same 
as if they were born only middling 

Pugh [nettled]. It seems to me, however, it would 
be better for them to be born a bit less clever and a 
bit more respectful. 

Sam [judicially]. They say it's a waise chaild 
that knows it's own fawther; but it's a waiser fawther 
that can arrainge to 'ave 'is chaild accordin' to 'is 
laikin'! 

Pugh. What I say is a man ought to be able to 
control his own sons 

Price. Sons? Sons.? I don't deny I may have 
[36] 



CHANGE 



got grounds of complaint about Lewis. If Gwilym 
here wasn't a bit fond of him, he'd have been out of 
the house long ago 

GwEN [shocked]. John! 

Price [to Pugh, not heeding her]. But there's 
John Henry now so good a boy as any father could 
wish 

GwEN. And not only good, Isaac Pugh, but 
clever. 

FuGH [loith a contemptuous snort]. Bit too clever, 
I'm thinking. 

GwEN [very sweetly]. Come now, Isaac Pugh. 
Wara teg for John Henry. You mustn't be down 
on him just because he happened to win 

Pugh. Well, I'll say this for Lewis, anyhow, 
whatever he's done, it's always before your face. 

[There is some sensation after this. All rise 
except Sam.] 

Price [taking a step toward Pugh]. What d'you 
mean, Isaac Pugh? 

Gwen. What's our John Henry done? Quick! 
Tell me! He's gone and got married? 

Pugh. No, Mrs. Price. It's not that. [To 
Price.] P'raps I may as well tell you now. 

Price. Well? 

[37J 



CHANGE 



PuGH. You'd have to hear sooner or later 
Price. Out with it, mun ! 



PuGH. I had a letter from our William Ewart 
this morning 

Price. Well? 

PuGH. John Henry's going to throw up the min- 
istry 

GwEN. What.? 

Price. It's a lie, Isaac Pugh! 

PuGH [putting his hand into his pocket], I've got 
the letter here. Look at it, you ! 

Price [in a lowy broken voice], John Henry, too! 
Duw mawr, John Henry, too ! 

Curtain 



[381 



ACT II 



ACT II 

Time : Evening of the following Sunday. 

Scene: The same. 

The table is now closer to the fireplace. The sweet- 
peas in the vase on the dresser have been changed. 
Price's week-day coat and a straw hat with Cardiff 
College band are behind door on left. Sam, in his 
best clothes, is sitting on the left-hand side of the 
dresser, his face hidden behind the ''News of the 
World.*' GwiLYM, reading a copy of " Cymru,'' is 
seated in the armchair, which is now on the left 
side of the table. Lewis is standing near the win- 
dow, looking out. John Henry is seated in the 
chair by the parlor door. He is a young man of 
twenty-one, in appearance something like his 
brother Lewis. Just now he is lost in thought. 
There is a short spell of silence; then Gwilym, un- 
consciously, begins to hum the old Welsh hymn, 
*'Bydd myrdd o ryfeddodau.'' After a bar or two, 
Lewis and John Henry take it up in harmony. 
[41] 



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Sam lowers the newspaper and looks at the brothers 
with perplexity and disgust. 

Sam. Cheerful, ain't it? Cawn't yer give us 
somethin' a bit more laively? Laife ain't orl a 
fun'ril, long drawn aht. 

Lewis. Strange what a hold they get on a man — 
those old hymns. [Sits down on chair by window.] 

John Henry. Yes, very strange! They seem to 
get down into your blood somehow. 

Sam. Not maine, me boy. No fear! Gimme a 
seat in a music 'all, a pot o' beer, a paipe of baccy, 
and I'm 'appy — puffickly 'appy. [Looking at the 
clock.] I suppose the boss and the missis will be 
'ome from chapel before long, nah. I'd better 'op it. 

GwiLYM. They won't be here for some time yet. 
It's the first Sunday in the month. And there'll be 
a lot of talk about the Church Meeting next week. 
They're going to choose the pastor then. 

Lewis. Aay. There'll be father pulling the 
strings for Thomas Llanstephan, and Isaac Pugh 
pulling the strings for Jones of Dowlais, so that one 
of them can get seven pound a month for preaching 
claptrap to a lot of old women. Ach ! 

Sam. Steady nah, Lewis! Steady, me boy! I 
[42] 



CHANGE 



don't 'old with goin' agen religion. I've bin a 
sailor in me taime; and when yer've spent a few 
years aht on the maighty deep — as the song sez — 
yer gits the idea there may be more in religion than 
yer think. So there's no 'awm in bein' perlite ter 
it, any 'ah. 

GwiLYM. After all, Lewis, you must make allow- 
ance for their view of things, or how can you expect 
them to make allowance for yours? 

Lewis. I tell you it makes me wild to see them 
worrying over things that don't matter twopence. 

GwiLYM. It's a low price, Lewis, for honest con- 
victions. 

Lewis [getting up with his usual restlessness]. 
Jones of Dowlais or Thomas Llanstephan — what 
does it matter? Think of the great problems round 
us — staring at us — crying at us — everywhere ! 
Look at this place we're living in — mean streets, 
mean homes, mean chapels, mean public-houses! 
On and on the people go, driven by some blind im- 
pulse within them, breeding children who will grow 
up to go through the same old senseless round — 
unless we change it. [Grimly.] Unless we change it ! 

Sam. Where yer gits the words from beats me 
'oiler — simply 'oiler ! 

[43] 



CHANGE 



John Henry. Oh, Lewis, if you only knew how I 
envy you your enthusiasm! I'm so sick of fighting 
things. Don't you ever get tired of it all? 

Lewis. Get tired? Yes, I do. Often and often. 
But then I remember what it is we're fighting for, 
and I see them in my mind, those men and women of 
the future. There are great things going to happen, 
things that I want to have a hand in shaping. And 
when I think of all this, I'm not tired any longer. 

Sam. Nah wot I sez, Lewis, is, it's no use lettin' 
yer feelin's git the better of yer judgment and spoilin' 
yer chawnces. It don't do yer no good in the long 
run ter go settin' yerseK up agen religion as yer do. 
It's got a strong 'old dahn 'ere, and yer mustn't 
fergit it. Nah taike my tip — Christian Socialism 
is the tack yer orter go on; it is, strite! 

GwiLYM [smiling, but earnest]. Now then, devil's 
advocate ! He's much better as he is. As I've told 
you before, you're the most cynical old 

Sam. Nah, Gwilym, no nimes, no 'awd nimes! 
I'm older than orl of yer, and I'm advaisin' of yer for 
yer own good. When yer gits on in years a bit, yer 
gits ter see that laife is a thing o' give and taike — 
and the waiser yer are, the less yer gives and the 
more yer taikes. That's abaht wot it comes tew. 
[44] 



CHANGE 



GwiLYM. Rot! 

John Henry. That's all very well; but a man's 
got his conscience to consider. There are times 
when it's right to make a stand. 

Sam. Sometaimes it may be raite, and agen, some- 
taimes it may be wrong; but it's always very dis- 
turbin'. 

John Henry. I knew that. But I did right. 
Don't you think so, Lewis? 

Lewis. Quite right. It was the only thing to do. 

John Henry. Father's scarcely looked at me 
since I've been home. Isaac Pugh passed me in the 
street without stopping. I'm not a criminal. 

Lewis. No. But they'll be down on you as if 
you'd committed murder. [Bitterly.] I know what 
they're like — the old brigade. 

John Henry. You don't blame me, Gwilym? 

GwiLYM. No, I don't blame you. I'm sorry; 
that's all. You've made up your mind, John 
Henry? 

John Henry. Quite. I don't care what happens, 
but I won't go back to it. 

Lewis. What will you do now? 

John Henry. I don't know. Teach, I suppose. 
I'm not sure I like the idea of it. 
[45] 



CHANGE 



Lewis. I don't think he'll let you go back to 
finish your degree. 

John Henry. If he doesn't suggest it, I shan't 
ask him. 

Sam. Yer don't think, John 'Enry, yer maite in 
taime bring yerself ter toe the laine agen, so ter 
speak? 

John Henry. Never! I'm out of it now. You 
don't know what misery it was — those heavy days 
and those endless nights ! 

GwiLYM. Of course, you understand it's bound to 
be a terrible blow for father. 

John Henry. Yes, I know. That's why I hung 
on through this second session. I never dreamt a 
man's mind could change like this in a couple of years. 

Sam [with kind curiosity]. Wot was it put yer orf 
it, if I may awsk the question? 

John Henry [with a gesture of helplessness]. Oh! 
I can't explain. It all just slipped away; that's all. 
I suppose I made up my mind too soon. It seemed 
so easy up here in Aberpandy after the Revival. 

Sam. Aw, yus! TheDeewigiad! 

John Henry. But down there in Cardiff it was 
different. . 

Gwilym. How? 

[46] 



CHANGE 



John Henry. I hadn't to work very hard, be- 
cause I had taken Higher Honors. So I read all 
kinds of things. 

Sam. Aw, yus! There yer are, Lewis. Wot did 
I tell yer? Give me the newspiper. 

John Henry. I went about — to concerts and 
plays. 

Sam. Did yer ever see George Robey , John 'Enry ? 
I seen 'im many a taime before I got stuck in this 
Gawd-fersaiken 'ole. 'E wasn't 'arf a corf -drop was 
George! Yer orter 'ave seen 'im as the pre'istoric 
man. Laugh? That ain't no word for it ! 

John Henry. There never was any laughter in 
this house, not even when we were children. 

Lewis. There's little room for laughter in the 
homes of the poor. 

John Henry [to Gwilym]. Sometimes I almost 
feel sorry we didn't stick to Roman Catholicism, all of 
us. I've met five or six fellows who think that, too. 

Gwilym [looking at him more closely]. Oh! 

John Henry. Say what you like, it's got a 
place for joy and beauty 

Sam. 'Arf a mow! Yer've never bin ter Spine 
[Spain], 'ave yer? 

John Henry [still to Gwilym]. It isn't that I 
[47 1 



CHANGE 



didn't tr>- to '^.--- \--^- Ad faille You zi-_L5iii't 

thinV I didn't try, Gwiiyiii. 

GwiLTM. I know that. 

John Hevsy. But, soaekov. Hie karder I 
tried to grasp it, tbe more it j immJiIji*! away. 

Lewis. You're not tlie only one wbo's beat 
ttioi^ that, John Heniy. 

JkMDT Hkmrt. It's koRibfe, Gwi^ym — all 
ttvoq^ tiie day as ycm tiy to woik* and ihok at 
m^X as yon tramp along vader tlfee stars — always 
^at one same question, always, always! But no 
answer ever comes. 

Sam. Wdl, it kn't forme ter say nothm*. Wot 
yer torkin* abaht nah is a hit aboTe me. B«t vot 
I've always said is. Give me comforL And it aia*^ 
a bad motter, other. 

GwiLTii. Didn't yoa ask advice froaa older mea* 
Mm Henry? 

John Hzxbt. At first I was afraid to say any- 
^kii^ about it, but I f oimd o«t afterwaids tkere 
odKrsHkeme. The older ma <fidKt 
as far as I could see. Some of tkem i 
Dtevin, as if it was all his larit. And 

I had to preach. D*yo« kaow, Gw^tj™* 
I got to hate the T«xy tkoacM <if SmMiiy . 
[48] 




'^HANGF. 



GwiLTM. You kept up yoar pabticatioDfl, tlien? 

JoHX Hexrt. For a time. It was oolf trjvDg to 
oooTinoe mTself . Hien I began to send other sta- 
dentj in my place. But I knew I ooaldn*t go on 
with it. Sooner cr later, Gwiljm, it had to oome. 
I simplj oooUnH go on. 

GwiLTic. It*s a hard case at best — a hard case! 

JoBX E[£3CRT. But what I can't understand is 
the waj so many take it. After all, I couldn't help 
iDjself, and it's I whoVe suffered most. Yet they 
treat me as if I'd done some dreadful thing. Look 
at father and Isaac Pu^ 

Lewis. It's the waj of the old brigade, John 
Henry. They think they're got the truth, and the 
whole truth. They hate any new idea 

GwiLTii. Yes; but, Lewis, they can't hdp it. 
YoQ sympathize with John Henry becaitse yoa 
nnderstand. You know it's only change. Hie old 
brigade, as you call them — they think it*s desertion. 
Remember, the things you're leaving are a part of 
their Tery lives. Don't you see? 

Lcwia. 111 teO you what I see — a lot of cantan- 
keroas old derils, too out-of-date to do anything 
and too jealous to let alone those who 



[49] 



CHANGE 



GwiLYM [reflectively]. I see something quite dif- 
ferent — something rather sad. 

Lewis. What is it? 

GwiLYM. It*s men and women growing old in a 
world that doesn't understand them, and that they 
themselves don't understand. Sometimes I think 
that because I'm an invalid, and perhaps, too, because 
I'm a bit of a poet — I see things in the old brigade 
that you've never realized. Half my time I've been 
on my back, outside life altogether, thinking and 
looking on. It's all very well for you, Lewis 

Lewis [with protest]. All very well for me? 

GwiLYM. Yes. It's quite all right for you. 
You're on the winning side. You've got the great 
ally 

Lewis. What ally? 

GwiLYM. Time; and in your heart you know it. 
You've only got to wait, and you'll win. But the old 
brigade can only see that they're losing, and they're 
bewildered, pressed on all sides by things that they 
don't understand. If they argue with you, they get 
beaten. Why ? Because they've been careful to give 
you the education they never had themselves 

John Henry. But they won't understand. 

GwiLYM. Because, of course, they can't under- 
[50] 



CHANGE 



stand. Take father's case now. Did ever any man 
work harder? [To Lewis.] Tell me. 

Lewis. No, I suppose not. 

GwiLYM. Could any man ever have denied 
himself more than he has done.^^ [To John Henry.] 
Come, John Henry, answer. 

John Henry. No. I must confess. Nobody 
could have. 

GwiLYM. You said just now there'd never been 
any laughter in this house. I'll tell you why. 
There's been one long, slow self-sacrifice; and the 
world needs sacrifice as much as it needs laughter. 
Don't be hard on him, boys, because he doesn't 
look at things with your eyes. He can't help him- 
self any more than you. He belongs to the old 
valley. At heart he's of the agricultural class — 
slow, stolid, and conservative. You, Lewis, you're 
of a different kind altogether — you've grown up in 
modern industry, with no roots in the soil. That's 
why you're a rebel. That's why the men of your 
time are rebels, too. 

[Knock at door. 

Lewis. Come in. 

[The door opens. Dai Matthews and TwM 
Powell are seen in the doorway.] 
[51] 



CHANGE 



Dai. Busy, Lewis? 

Lewis. No. Only chatting. Any news? Come 
in. 

Enter Dai and T wm. Dai Matthews is a young man, 
plainly dressed. Twm Powell is a collier, in his 
best clothes. He wears a red necktie. 

Dai. We wanted to see you on a bit of business, 
Lewis. 

Lewis. Oh! Anything important? [He gets up.] 

Twm. Aay, Lewis, most important. Some more 
of their damned capitahst tricks; that's what's the 
matter. 

GwiLYM. Well, if you've got business, we won't 
interrupt you. [He gets up, leaving " Cymru'* on the 
table.] Come and have a look at my new sweet- 
peas, John Henry. I meant to cut a few of those 
King Edward the Sevenths. 

John Henry [rising] . Right you are ! 

Dai. How are they getting on in this hot weather, 
Gwilym? I see old Roberts has got a fine show of 
them down there at the crossing. 

Gwilym. Yes, but the drought's spoiling them — 
especially his White Spencers. He's asked me to go 
[52] 



CHANGE 



down and see them in the morning. [Going toward 
back-kitchen.] Come on, John Henry ! 

Sam [taking up his newspaper]. 'Arf a mow, boys. 
I'm aht o' this 'ere conspiracy, tew. A man with 
one awm cawn't afford ter git mixed up in such 
affairs. It's as much as my job would be worth. 
Ta, ta! [Follows the others through kitchen.] 

Lewis. Sit down. Now what is it? 

[Lewis takes the armchair. TwM takes the 
chair by the window, Dai that to the left of 
dresser.] 

TwM. I'll tell you what it is, Lewis; they're try- 
ing to trick us workingmen that they've been ex- 
ploiting all our lives. 

Lewis [turning to Dai, as if used to Twm's out- 
bursts]. Well? 

Dai. The masters are going to run up a special 
train to-morrow with two hundred blacklegs 

Lewis [rising]. What? 

Dai. Yes. We had word to-day from Cardiff. 

TwM. It makes me sick to think there are men in 
the country to-day will take the gold of the capitalist 
to betray their fellow- workers ! 

Lewis. Dai, those blacklegs are not to come in. 

Dai. And what's more, the soldiers in the next 
[53] 



CHANGE 



valley have been shifted up. They're only just over 
the hill 

Lewis. Soldiers or no soldiers, those blacklegs 
are not to come in. 

TwM. Soldiers? Tools in the hands of the privi- 
leged classes, grinding down the 

Dai. What's to be done, Lewis? 

Lewis [pacing the room]. There's a lot to be 
done, Dai. If those blacklegs come in, they'll 
break the strike. 

Dai. Yes, I know. 

Lewis. It would be fatal to the whole cause for us 
to be beaten here. Aberpandy gave the lead. Who- 
ever else gives in, we've got to go on to the bitter end. 

Dai. And then, there's the bye-election coming 
off. It would cost Pinkerton hundreds of votes if 
the strike was to be broken here 

TwM. Of course! Of course! It's hopelessness 
if he can't keep his own district loyal. 

Lewis. Look here. There's only one thing to 
do. Get them to wire from Cardiff telling us what 
time the train starts. Then we'll call a demonstra- 
tion up here on Bryndu an hour or so before the 
train gets to Aberpandy. It will have to slow up at 

the crossing 

[54] 



CHANGE 



TwM. Dyna fe! I see! Da iawn! And then 
we can get the men down to the crossing and pull the 
blacklegs off the train 

Lewis. Yes. We've only got to close the 
gates 

Dai. It's risky, Lewis — and the soldiers only 
over the hill. 

Lewis. But you know what blacklegs are ! They 
nearly always give in when they see a crowd 

TwM. Anyhow, a bit of a row won't do much 
harm neither. It's time the public was shown that 
organized labor is a power in the land. 

Dai. You're sure it's worth it, Lewis? 

Lewis. It's worth everything. Don't you see 
it's worth everything.^ If we let them beat us now, 
it's the beginning of the end. You can't expect a 
strike like this to be a Sunday-school tea-party. 
You're not weakening, Dai? 

Dai. No, I'm not weakening. I've taken my 
side with the workingmen here. It looks as if it 
may cost me my job in school. But I'll stick to my 
side. Don't be afraid. 

Lewis. Good boy, Dai. We must see the Com- 
mittee to-night. 

Dai. If you'll take my advice, Lewis, you'll 
[55] 



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keep out of this. IVe had a tip that the poUce have 
got their eye on you because of the speeches you've 
been making. If they see you organizing this, 
they'll be sure to think there's something in the 
wind; and that would spoil all. 

Lewis. Aay, p'raps you're right. 

Dai. They're watching you closely, now. You're 
a marked man. 

TwM. You'd better leave the demonstration to 
Dai and me. It'll be all right. I'll make a speech. 

Dai. If they think there's trouble brewing, 
they'll have the soldiers over at once. Now, if you, 
Lewis, were to he low until the last moment 

TwM. We'll work it up. Leave that to me! 

Dai. And then slipped down to the crossing and 
made an appeal to the blacklegs to go away without 
causing trouble 

TwM. Duck the devils in the river, I would! 

Lewis. Right, Dai! Your way's the right one. 
There's no need to make a row if we can avoid it. 
Look here! I'll stay in till you send for me, shall I? 

Dai. Yes, that will be best. We'll take that as 
fixed, then? 

Lewis. Very well. 

Dai. There's another matter I want to talk 
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about, too. [He takes out a letter, smiling myster- 
iously.] 

Lewis. Oh! What's that? 

Dai. You know they're going to appoint a 
miner's agent for the new district they've opened up 
in Carmarthenshire? 

Lewis. Yes? 

Dai. Well, Pinkerton's pushing you for all he's 
worth. It's pretty sure now, he says, that you'll be 
able to have it for the asking. 

Lewis. He mentioned it to me some time ago, 
but there was nothing settled then. 

TwM. If it had been anybody else but you, I'd 
have had a shot myself. But, of course, I shouldn't 
stand a chance against you. 

Dai [giving Lewis the letter]. There's nothing 
private in it. I'm glad the opportunity is coming 
your way. You've always had an ambition to give 
your whole time to the Labor Movement. Pinker- 
ton says something about starting at once 

Lewis. At once? But 

TwM. There's nothing to stop you, anyhow. 
Don't you be afraid for Aberpandy. There's men 
here can keep the cause going. 

Lewis. It's Gwilym I'm thinking of. He's 
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going to Australia in five weeks' time. I don't like 
the idea of leaving him just before he goes. I dare 
say it could be arranged — I don't want to miss a 
chance like this 

Dai. Oh, that'll be all right. I'm sure Pinkerton 
can manage it. I'll drop a line to him to-night 

Lewis. Of course, if it came to that, I could run 
up week-ends. 

Dai. That'll be all right. Don't you worry! 

TwM. It's strange what a soft spot you've all 
got for Gwilym. You've been a good butty to him, 
I must say, ever since you were children. 

Lewis. Well, you see, Twm, he's always been the 
weak one of us three boys, and I got into the habit of 
looking after him when we were in school. 

Dai. He cost you many a fight up there in the 
British School, did Gwilym. By the way, is it true 
that John Henry's thrown up the ministry? 

Lewis. Yes. Things are very much strained 
between him and the old man because of it. 

Dai. Yes, I suppose it's a bit unpleasant. Look 
here, why doesn't he go away for a bit? There's the 
Male Voice Party going up to London to-morrow 
morning to sing for the Strike Fund. A good tenor 
like John Henry would be very useful, 
r 58 1 



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Lewis. I hadn't thought of that. I'll mention 
it to him. 

TwM. And Gwilym's going for good? 

Lewis. For some years, anyway. 

Dai. It's rather strange. I may be going to 
Australia about that time, too ! 

Lewis [surprised]. You.'^ To Australia .^^ 

Dai. Yes. You know that some of the old 
brigade on the Council are trying to get rid of me 
because of the part I've played in the strike? 

Lewis. Well? 

Dai. They've been raking up some trouble about 
the registers. If I get the sack, I'm going out to 
Australia, too. That's the place for a Labor-man. 

Lewis. Are they likely to turn you out? 

Dai. It's touch and go. 

TwM. It'll be another case of victimizing the 
friend of the workingman. 

Dai. There's a cattle-boat going from Cardiff 
in five weeks' time. Somebody's taking out a breed 
they want to try in Australia and New Zealand. 
There's three or four chaps from Aberpandy going 
to work their passages. It's not difficult work. 

Lewis. Let's hope it won't come to that. 

Dai [rising]. I don't care much if it does. We'd 
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better be off now to call on the Committee. Come 
on, Twm. 

Lewis. And you'll come for me when you want 
me in the morning? 

Dai. Yes. P'raps Twm will run up. [He goes to- 
ward door, preceded by Twm.] 

Twm. We'll teach them a thing or two. Soli- 
darity, that's what we want. Solidarity of labor ! 

Lewis [taking Dai by the arm]. You won't for- 
get to write to Pinkerton? 

Dai. That'll be all right. [Patting him on 
shoulder.] You've got a great future, Lewis — a 
great future. If I go to Australia, I'll often think 
of you. You're bound to make a name for yourself 
sooner or later. 

Lewis. Diolch i ti, Dai. 

Dai. Well, noswath dda nawr. 

Twm. Noswath dda, Lewis. 

[Dai and Twm go out. Lewis stands for a 
moment in thought, then goes to the table 
and takes up the letter given him by Dai. 
As he reads it, he smiles with pleasure. 
He opens back-kitchen door and whistles to 
those outside. They are heard approaching.] 
Lewis. They're gone now, boys. 
[60] 



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Enter John Henry, Gwilym, and Sam. John 
Henry has a few crimson sweet-pea blooms in his 
hand. Lewis sits down in armchair. 

Gwilym. Conspirators departed, eh, Lewis? 
Lewis [with a little starts which he covers with an 
affectation of lightness]. Yes. All gone. All gone. 
Gwilym [pointing to the letter in Lewis's hand]. 
What have you got there — a list for the guillotine .^^ 
Lewis. This.^ Oh, only a letter! Bit of busi- 
ness. That's all. 

[Sam and John Henry take the seats they occu- 
pied before. Gwilym goes to the dresser, 
and adds the blooms to those already in 
the vase.] 
Sam. Accordin' ter wot I 'ear, Dai Matthews 
'as bin gittin' inter trouble on acahnt of torkin' 
politics in school an' one thing and another. 

Lewis. He suggested, John Henry, that you 
might like to join the Male Voice Party. They're 
going to sing in London, starting to-morrow. They'd 
be glad of a good first tenor. 

John Henry [loith some eagerness]. Would they, 
really? 

Sam [sadly] . Wish I was a tenor, first tenor, second 
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tenor, third tenor — any bloomin' tenor ! I'd give a 
lot ter sit dahn ter a plaite o' fish and chips in Cannin' 
Tahn agen. I would. Not 'arf ! 

[Lewis is re-reading the letter.] 

GwiLYM. Are you homesick, Sam? 

Sam. It ain't so much bein' 'omesick as sick of 
Aberpandy. Some'ah I ain't at 'ome dahn 'ere. 
Even the beer don't taiste the saime. I've traied it 
maild; I've traied it bitter, and I've traied it mixed. 
[Cheerfully.] But it ain't no good grumblin', is it? 
Much better to taike things as they come. I think 
I'll just 'op on to a tram and go dahn to the "Stag 
and Pheasant ' ' for 'arf a bitter. 

John Henry [to Lewis]. D'you think they really 
want 

GwiLYM. You're not seriously thinking of iti^ 

John Henry. Well, I wouldn't mind. 

GwiLYM. You see, there's mother. You've only 
been here a couple of days. She wouldn't like you 
to run away at once. 

John Henry, Oh, yes ! There's mother, of 
course. 

Sam [looking toward the window]. 'Ere they are 
comin' up the 'ill, and Isaac Pugh with them. I'm 
goin' ter 'op it — aht through the back. [Crjsses to 
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kitchen door.] Not a word ter the boss, maind yer! 
Well, nows dawkee, boys ! [He goes out. 

Lewis. I'm going out into the garden. I don't 
want to quarrel with old Pugh again. 

[He goes out. Voices are heard on the road.] 

GwEN [just outside door]. Won't you come in for 
a minute, Isaac Pugh? 

Pugh. Well, indeed, just a minute then, just a 
minute ! 

Enter Price, Gwen, and Isaac Pugh. They are 
all in their best clothes, old-fashioned garments and 
very worn. Price is carrying a big tonic sol-fa 
hymn book. 

They're burying old Jonah Jones to-morrow, and I 
promised to go up to the prayer meeting there to- 
night. [To GwiLYM, kindly.] How are you this 
evening? 

GwiLYM. Pretty well, thank you. 
Pugh [to John Henry with cold politeness]. And 
how are you, John Henry? 
John Henry. All right, thanks. How are you? 
[Pugh takes the chair by the window. John 
Henry takes "Cymru' from the table and 
[63 1 



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idly turns over the pages. He is obviously 
somewhat uncomfortable. Price, after a few 
quiet words with Gwilym, takes the arm- 
chair, ignoring John Henby altogether.] 
GwEN [taking off bonnet and cloak]. Where's 
Lewis? 

John Henry. Out in the garden. 
GwEN. Has he got his waistcoat on, Gwilmy? 
There's no trusting the evenings, however hot it is. 
Gwilym. That's all right, ma'am. He's got it on. 
[GwEN takes up her cloak and bonnet very 
carefully, and carries them into the parlor.] 
PuGH. Aay. As I was saying, they're burying 
poor old Jonah to-morrow. 

GwEN [as she comes from parlor]. Will you stop 
for a bit of supper, Isaac Pugh? 

PuGH. No, indeed, thank you fawr, Mrs. Price. 
You see, poor Jonah's wife was a second cousin to 
my missis; so it wouldn't look the thing for me not 
to be there at the prayer meeting. 

Gtven. Well, Jonah might have treated her 
better, poor thing! But now he's dead and gone, 
I s'pose it's only right to paint him whiter than he 
was. [To Price.] Don't you think you'd better 
put on your everyday coat, John.? 
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[Price has been sitting with every appearance 
of grim displeasure on his face. Now and 
then he glances at John Henry in fierce 
anger. At Gwen's suggestion, he gets up 
and takes off his cuffs, which are held to- 
gether by huge buttons. Then he removes 
his coat, showing a rough gray flannel shirt. 
Without a word he carries the things into 
the parlor, and, coming back, takes his coat 
from behind the door.] 
PuGH. If they ask me to offer up a few words, it 
won't be easy to know quite what to say. He wasn't a 
full member in Horeb. [ Turning to Price.] Talking 
of Horeb, Rees the Top Shop and Powell the Stock- 
ings were telling me in the vestry to-night they're 
pretty sure Jones of Dowlais will get the vote in the 
Church Meeting. 

Price. I dare say. [He sends a look of rage to- 
ward John Henry.] 

PuGH. And if he gets it — mind you, I don't say 

he will 

Price. He'll get it — now! [He sends another 
look toward John Henry.] 

Gwen [trying to change the subject]. Who's preach- 
ing with us next Sunday? 

[65] 



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PuGH. Well, indeed, now you come to ask, I 
think it's our William Ewart is there next Sunday. 

GwEN. Oh, yes! WiUiam Ewart! Of course, 
if we are spared, we shall be sure to come to hear 
William Ewart, morning and evening. [She looks 
at John Henry, and turns away stifling a little sigh.] 

PuGH. Don't you go out of your way, Mrs. 
Price. Well, I must be off now, indeed. [With a 
touch of triumph.] I suppose if I don't see you before. 
Price, you'll be at the Church Meeting on Tues- 
day.^ 

[Price, goaded hy all this, flashes round to give 
an angry reply, hut it is anticipated hy 
GwEN.] 
GwEN [quickly]. Oh, yes, of course. We shall be 
there for sure — both of us. 

PuGH. Well, good night now. Good night, all 

of you. [He goes out, 

[There is a short pause. Price looks hard at 

John Henry, who is pretending to read. 

GwiLYM is watching his father with con- 

siderahle apprehension.] 

GwEN. W^U, I'm glad I asked him to stop to 

supper, and I'm glad he didn't stop. Nobody can 

say we owe the Pughs anything. [She goes toward 

[66] 



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the back-kitchen, but is stopped by the tone of her hus- 
band's next words.] 

Price [in a cold, hard voice]. I didn't see you in 
chapel to-night, John Henry. 

John Henry. No, I wasn't there, 'nhad. 

Price. Wasn't there .^^ And first Sunday in the 
month, too? 

John Henry. I didn't feel like it. 

GwiLYM. It's rather close this evening — [goes 
toward fireplace] — 'nhad. 

Price. There's plenty of room in Horeb now. 
You needn't be afraid of that 

GwEN. Would you like to have your supper 
now, John.f^ 

Price [without noticing her]. I suppose you think 
it's a very clever thing to have everybody talking 
about you like this.^^ 

John Henry. About me? 

Price. Yes; the deacons and the members. 
D'you think they don't talk? Haven't I been 
working all this time to keep Jones of Dowlais out 
of Horeb? And here you are — my own son — ten 
times worse than him. D'you think I don't know 
what they're saying behind my back? 

John Henry. I'm sorry, 'nhad; but I can't 
[67] 



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help it. [With an air of being tired of the whole matter, 
he gets up and crosses toward the window, where he 
stands looking out.] 

GwEN [advancing toward table]. Nawr, John, 
nawr! You mustn't go on like that. He wouldn't 
have given it up if he didn't think it was right. 
After all, there's no disgrace in it — not really, John! 
It's only the foolishness of people's talk. And he'll 
go in for the teaching. A clever boy like him can 
easily get into an intermediate; and you can't deny, 
John, it's nearly as respectable as being a preacher. 

Price. He's chosen his own way. It makes no 
difference to me now what that way is 

GwEN. John ! 

GwiLYM. 'Nhad! 'Nhad! 

Price. One thing I know — he'll never touch 
another penny of my money. 

John Henry [hotly]. And he'll never ask for it, 
either ! 

GwEN. John ! John ! Don't be hard on him 

John Henry. It's all right, ma'am 

GwEN. He's only a boy after all, and he didn't 
understand. He's very sorry if he's upset your 
plans about Horeb. You are sorry, aren't you, 
John Henry? 

[68] 



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Price. Plans for Horeb? He's upset more than 
my plans for Horeb. [To John Henry.] Haven't 
we been slaving and sacrificing all these years? 
Haven't we given you education when you might 
have had to go to pit? Haven't we done all we 
could — books, clothes, and all the rest? And what 
was it all for? To have you turn out an unbeliever 
at the end of all ! 

GwEN. No. He's not an unbeliever. You're 
not an unbeliever, are you, John Henry? 

John Henry [wearily]. But 'nhad, 'nhad ! Can't 
you understand? Can't you see? 

Price. I can see that you've turned your back on 
the religion you've been brought up in. I can under- 
stand that you despise the faith of your father and 
your mother 

John Henry. Despise? I — despise your faith? 
Why, good heavens, it's the one thing I envy 
you! 

Price. If you don't despise it, why have you 
given it up? Answer me that. 

GwiLYM. But, 'nhad, does he despise your coat 
because it doesn't happen to fit him? 

Price [not unkindly]. Now, Gwilym, don't you 
interfere. 

[69] 



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GwEN [eagerly]. Yes, yes. Speak your mind, 
you, Gwilym bach ! 

GwiLYM. You musn't be unjust to John Henry, 
'nhad. [He goes to chair right of table.] 

Price [to Gwen]. There you are, he's turning 
Gwilym against me now 

Gwilym. No 'nhad, no! 

Price. He is, I tell you. He wants to make you 
like himself. It's the way with all these unbelievers. 
They're at it now down there by the bridge 

John Henry. But surely, if you're allowed to 
preach what you like 

Price. Oh, yes ! You can argue, I dare say. If 
I'd let you go to the pit instead of sending you to 
school and college 

John Henry [with irritation]. Yes, but you sent 
me to school and college 

Price [raising his voice]. And whose money kept 
you in school? Whose money helped to keep you 
in college? I'd rather have thrown it into the 
river. 

John Henry. I'm not sure it wouldn't have been 
better. 

Gwen. Now, machan-i! 

Price. That's your gratitude, is it? That's the 
[70] 



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thanks I get for all these years — and the extra 
turns I worked because of you. 

John Henry [bursting out angrily]. Oh, I'm 
sick of it all, sick of struggling against what can't be 
conquered, sick of being badgered and bullied by 
people too dull to understand ! I tell you I couldn't 
help it. Why don't you let me alone.? I took the 
honest course where it was easy to play double. 
You make no allowance for that. You wanted a 
preacher in the family. It flattered your pride. 
That's what you're thinking of now. You don't care 
about me and the hell on earth I've had over all this. 
You wouldn't care if I sold myself ten times over 

GwEN [frightened]. Now, John Henry bach, you 
mustn't talk like that — not to your father 

Price. So it's come to this, has it.^^ [With cold 
restraint.] If my eye offends me, I can pluck it 
out 

GwiLYM [rising]. 'Nhad! 

John Henry [with the same cold restraint]. What 
d'you mean.? 

Price. I mean that I've done with you — for- 
ever! 

Gwen [with a gasp of terror]. No! No! John, 

he's our child 

[71] 



CHANGE 

Price. He's mine no longer. 

GwEN [rushing to John Henry] . Don't you listen 
to him ! Don't you listen to him ! It's only because 
he's in a temper about Jones of Dowlais 

John Henry [who has not turned his eyes from 
Price's /ace]. So you've done with me.^ 

Price. Yes. 

GwEN. But I don't care, 'nghariad-i! I don't 
care about you giving up the ministry. I'm your 
mother; that's all I care about, and if you're an un- 
believer, it's the same you are to me, boy bach 

Price. Gwen, do you put your children before 
your God.f^ 

Gwen [in a low voice]. Even before my God! 

Price [to John Henry]. You've brought a curse 
on the house. Get out of my sight ! 

GwiLYM [advancing toward his father]. Think 
what you're doing, 'nhad ! 

Price. He's taken my money from me. He's 
robbed me of my rest. He's no better than a com- 
mon thief! 

John Henry. I'm going. I've suffered enough. 

GwiLYM. No, no! It will blow over! 

Gwen. But what about me? D'you hear, both 
of you? What about me? 

[ 72 ] 



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[John Henry, looking toward his mother, 

softens a little. Then, looking toward his 

father, he grows hard again, and with a 

savage exclamation, takes his hat and goes 

out, banging the door. Gwilym sinks into 

his chair and covers his face with his hands, 

evidently suffering a shock. Gwen, after a 

moment of helplessness, turns furiously on 

her husband, and Gwilym jumps to his feet, 

clutching the chair for support. Lewis, 

anxious and astonished, appears in the 

doorway of the kitchen.] 

Gwen [to Price, vehemently]. You brute! You 

wicked, cruel brute! You've driven him away. 

I hate you ! I hate you ! 

Gwilym [swaying to and fro as he moves toward his 

father]. I can't stand it. I can't stand 

[He collapses, fainting, on to the armchair. 
Gwen, Lewis, and Price hurry toward him.] 
Gwen. Duw mawr! He's bad. Lewis, run for 
the doctor. Quick, Lewis, quick! 

Lewis [loosening Gwilym's clothing] . He's fainted ; 
that's all. [To Price.] Get some water. [To 
Gwen.] Open the door, ma'am. 

[Gwen opens the door. Price hastens into the 
[73] 



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kitchen and returns with a glass of water, 
which Lewis puts to Gwilym's lips.] 

Peice [as GwiLYM stirs]. He's coming round. 

Lewis. Yes, he*s coming round. 

[All the differences between the three have, for 
the moment, disappeared, as they stand 
around Gwilym in equal solicitude. Then 
GwiLYM opens his eyes and smiles faintly.] 

Price [tenderly]. Better now, Gwilym bach? 

Gwilym. Where is he — our John Henry.? 

[The little interlude of sympathy ends with the 
question. Lewis turns to his father with 
a hard, inquiring gaze, beneath which the 
old man shrinks a little. Gwen, looking 
through the open door, begins to cry quietly.] 

Gwen. He's going down to the crossing. And he 
hasn't looked back. And he hasn't looked back. 



Curtain 



74] 



ACT III 



ACT III 

Time: Monday Morning, 

Scene : The same. 

The table has been drawn out toward the middle of the 
room. Breakfast is just over. Gwilym, Sam, and 
Lewis are seated in their usual places during meals. 
There is a short spell of silence. Gwilym, as if 
thinking of the previous evening^ sighs quietly and 
shakes his head. Lewis, laboring under suppressed 
excitement, moves uneasily on his chair, sending 
occasional glances toward the window. Dressed in his 
working clothes, Sam is reading the " Daily Mail " 
as he smokes his morning pipe, at peace with all the 
world. The old red flag stands against the side of 
his chair. Gwen enters with a small tray holding 
cup, saucer, plate, etc. She places the tray on the 
table, and looks about her in a troubled way. Her 
manner betrays a mind heavily burdened. She has 
a trick of sighing softly to herself, 
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Sam [trying to be cheerful]. Well, missis, yer'U 
'ave Lizzie Ann back with yer this mornin', eh? 

GwEN [arranging some crockery on the dresser]. 
Yes, I hope so, Sam. 

Sam. She's a useful kaind o' gel is Lizzie Ann, and 
no nonsense abaht 'er. I dare say she'll be glad ter 
be back. " There's no plaice like 'ome" — as the 
song says. 

GwEN. It's a sad home she's coming back to. 

Sam. Cheer up, missis! Cheer up! We ain't 
dead yet — none of us. 

GwEN [cutting bread and butter for the small plate 
on the tray]. If anybody had told me, I wouldn't 
have believed it. Turning him out like that — and 
on a Sunday night, too! There's thirty years 
we've been living up here on the Twmp, always as 
tidy and respectable as the best of them. What 
the neighbors will be saying I hardly dare to 
think. 

Sam. There's no need ter tell 'em, missis ! 

GwEN. No. They know already, Sam. 

Sam. Know.^ 'Ah do they know? 

GwEN. Neighbors always know, Sam. 

[Knock at door, 

GwEN. Come in. 

[78] 



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Enter Jinnie Pugh, a little girl of twelve or thirteen. 
She is carrying " The South Wales Daily News.''* 
All hid her good morning. 

Jinnie. Please, Mrs. Price, here's the paper from 
father. And please, has Mr. Price finished with 
"Cymru".? 

[She gives the paper to Mrs. Price, who gives 
it to GwiLYM. He takes out some inside 
sheets and passes the rest to Lewis.] 

GwEN. Yes. It*s here somewhere. [She looks 
about the dresser.] 

Lewis [hastily scanning the sheets], D'you see 
anything there, Gwilym, about the new district 
they're forming in Carmarthenshire.^^ 

Gwilym. I'll have a look. 

Lewis. Or about the strike — you know, the 
blacklegs? 

Sam. I see in the "Mile" [Mail] 'ere there's been 
some trouble dahn Swansea way. Three p'licemen 
in the 'orspital. But, arter all, p'licemen is only 
p'licemen. 

Lewis. Nothing very special here. I hope 
there'll be no trouble in our valley. 

Sam. If there is, I 'ope the authorities will taike 
[79 1 



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a pretty strong laine — with orl jew respect ter you, 
Lewis. O' course, I don't say anythin' agen knockin' 
a p'liceman abaht nah and then — but no extremes 
— that's wot I sez — no extremes ! 
[The men read in silence.] 
GwEN [finding the magazine]. Yes. Here it is, 
Jinnie fach. [She gives the copy of ''Cymru^* to 

JiNNIE.] 

Jinnie. And please, Mrs. Price, will you ask Mr. 
Price if he will open the prayer meeting to-night, 
because father is going down to Treforest with our 
William Ewart. 

GwEN [with the usual touch of hostility]. Oh! 
William Ewart! [Overcome by curiosity.] Is there 
anything the matter .^^ 

Jinnie [proudly]. They're having the big meet- 
ings in Salem, and one of the preachers is taken ill; 
and they've sent for our William Ewart to preach 
down there to-night. He's going on his holidays 
this week. 

GwEN. Where to, Jinnie.? 

Jinnie. Llandrindod Wells. 

GwEN. Oh! Going to stay with his Aunt Marged, 
I s'pose? 

JiNNiE. No, though she sent him an invite; but 
[80] 



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— [proudly] — he's going to stop in a boarding- 
house. 

GwEN [impressed in spite of herself]. Is he? 
He'll be there for a week or ten days? 

JiNNiE. A fortnight. He's preaching in Builth 
the second Sunday. [She makes a movement as if to 

go-] 

GwEN. Well, I'll tell Mr. Price about the prayer 
meeting as soon as I take him his breakfast. He 
hasn't got up yet. He isn't feeling very well this 
morning. Will you have a round cake before you go ? 

JiNNiE. Thank you. 

[Mrs. Price gives her a cake, and she goes 
toward the door,] 

All. Good morning, Jinnie. 

JiNNiE. Good morning, Mrs. Price. Good morn- 
ing, all. [She goes out. 

GwEN. William Ewart, indeed! They must be 
getting very hard up in Treforest! 

GwiLYM [laying down the paper]. But, ma'am 
fach, you mustn't blame him. It isn't his fault. 

GwEN. What did he want to write that letter 
to his father for? 

GwiLYM. Well, how would you feel if John 
Henry hadn't written to you? 
[81] 



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GwEN. There was plenty for William Ewart 
to write about without bringing in our John Henry. 

GwiLYM. Father would have to know sooner or 
later. 

GwEN [stubbornly]. He was jealous; that's what 
was wrong with William Ewart. He knew our John 
Henry was too clever for him. I know those Pughs, 
come you, boy bach. And there's John Henry — 
that was always a king to William Ewart — turned 
out of house and home. I haven't closed my eyes 
all night. And now, there he is gone off to London 
with the Male Voice Party, without so much as a 
nightshirt. 

GwiLYM. Don't you worry, ma'am. We can find 
out where he is and send some things after him. 

GwEN. Can we, Lewis.? 

Lewis. Yes, yes. Of course, that will be all 
right. 

GwEN. I was thinking in bed we might be able 
to send some things after him. If only he could 
have his other suit now, and a couple of shirts and a 
few collars. It goes to my heart to think of him 
looking so simple before all the othei:s. You know 
what a proud spirit he's got. Fair play for you, 
Gwilym; you follow my family more. But John 
[82] 



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Henry is a Price — a proper Price; and they're all 
stubborn, the Prices. They're born stubborn; they 
live stubborn; and they die that stubborn they keep 
hanging on for months. 

Lewis. Dai Matthews will tell us where they're 
staying in London. We can send a parcel after him 
this evening. 

GwEN. And I'll make some round cakes, nice 
and fresh, after dinner. He was always fond of my 
round cakes. I can't help feeling afraid, too, that 
they'll p'raps be giving him a damp bed. There 
was Jones the Machine Shop caught his death in a 
damp bed in London, as his wife will tell you to this 
day. 

Sam. 'E'U be orl raite, missis. Don't yer worry 
yer 'ead abaht 'im. It'll do 'im good. My stawrs, 
I'd 'ave gawn pretty quick if I'd 'ad the chawnce — 
even if it was only goin' rahnd with the 'at! 'E'll 
see laife. 'E'U git polish. That's what 'e'll git — 
polish ! 

GwEN [with a touch of dignity]. He's got polish 
enough on him already. Remember you, Sam, he's 
been down in Cardiff for two years. 

Sam [with profound contempt]. Cawdiff? Caw- 
diff ? Tew bloomin' rileway stations; that's Cawdiff. 
[83 1 



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Wite till 'e comes 'ome from London, and 'ear 'im 
tork abaht it. 

GwEN [the mood of sadness rising again]. **Wait 
till he comes home !" Aay, wait! There's something 
telling me it's wait I'll have to. 

GwiLYM. Nonsense, ma'am fach! The party's 
due back inside a month 

GwEN. Ah, yes. The party may be. But he's a 
strange boy is our John Henry. He's like his Aunt 
Myfanw'. You've only got to look at his nose and 
chin. He's one of those who remember things for- 
ever. I know his nature. [Shaking her head with 
a certain shrewdness in her sorrow.] I know his 
nature, machan-i. I've brought him up ! 

Sam. Tut, tut, missis ! It'll pawss over — sooner 
or later, laike every thin' else; and then all will come 
raite agen. 

GwEN [shaking her head slowly as she gazes into 
space before her]. No, Sam. It's no use saying 
that. It won't all come right again. I heard words 
in this room last night that I can never, never forget. 
The words have been spoken, and nothing can make 
it as if they had not been said. They go down, 
deep down into your heart. For a long, long time 
it seems as if you'd forgotten, but one day they'll 
[84] 



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come back, when you're sitting by the fire in the 
evening or doing your work about the house. 

Sam. It ain't any use broodin', missis. The 
world is a 'awrd plaice for them that don't forgit. 

GwEN [in the same tone]. It's a hard thing for 
a woman that's getting old to see her own husband 
and her son standing face to face like that, and so 
bitter against each other! [Trying to shake off her 
sadness.] Ah, well ! I suppose I'd better take him 
a bit of breakfast. [She pauses as she lifts the tray.] 
His own son — turned out into the road — Hke a 
strange dog ! 

[Sighing quietly to herself, she goes off with 
the tray through the kitchen. There is a 
short pause, in which the three men stare 
after her.] 

GwiLYM. Poor old ma'am ! She's living in a little 
world of her own 

Sam. That's raite. Yer've got it, Gwilym — a 
little world of 'er own. It's my belief if she 'ad ter 
choose between 'ell with you three boys and 'eaven 
without yer, she'd beg the Almighty's pawdon — 
and vote for 'ell. 

Lewis [smiling kindly]. Of course, she may be a 

bit narrow in some ways, but all the same 

[85 1 



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GwiLYM. Narrow? Ah, yes! But deep, danger- 
ously deep 

Sam. Nah, I don't 'old with maiking yerself 
miserable on acahnt of yer children, meself . If yer 
want ter be 'appy in this 'ere world, yer've got ter 
keep yer feelin's dahn. Feelin's, if yer let 'em go^ 
they're the very devil; and, Lewis, I'm tellin' yer nah, 
don't yer forgit it neither. [Lewis gets up and goes 
to dooVf where he stands for a short time, looking 
rather furtively up the hill and down toward the crossing. 
Then he returns to his seat, trying to show interest in 
Sam's talk, hut falling gradually into abstraction.] 
Wot I sez is, don't worry. Tike things easy. As 
the old song sez, '* Yer 'ere ter-day, gawn ter-morrer." 
So why not enjoy yer pot of ile and yer paipe o' 
baccy while yer can? Look at me, nah! Born in 
Cannin' Tahn, and knocked abaht the world for 
years. Then, orl of a sudden, 'appenin' ter 'ave a 
drop tew much, I gits run over dahn there at the 
crossin' and loses me awm. I'd no clime for com- 
pensaish'n, and the Company offers me a job at 
eighteen -and-a-tanner a week carryin' the bloomin' 
old flag abaht. D'yer think I laike bein' stuck in 
an 'ole sich as this? It ain't me ambition, I tell yer. 
But wot's the use o' turnin' yerself insaide aht over 
[86 1 



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wot cawn't be 'elped? Mike yer miserable self 
'appy — that's my motter. 

GwiLYM. That's all very well, Sam. But take 
my mother's case now. She can't help feeling 

Sam. Look 'ere, me boy. I'll tell yer wot's 
wrong with this 'ere country of yours — there's a 
lot tew much feelings abaht for comfort. Nah, 
d'yer remember Shewni Good-lookin', as yer call 
'im? [GwiLYM nods,] Faine nime ter give a feller 
that is! A pal o' mine was Shewni; laiked 'is pot 
o' beer as much as any man. Then the Revaiv'l 
come along — the Deewigiad, as yer call it. Next 
thing I 'card, Shewni'd been dahn on 'is knees, call- 
ing 'isself a miserable sinner, and prayin' I'd be con- 
verted from me evil ways — aht lahd, maind yer. 
Nah, I awsk yer, wot can yer mike of a man 
laike that? Where is the common sense o' sich 
goin's on? 

GwiLYM. But you'll admit that he's been a 
steady fellow ever since? 

Sam. Ow, I don't say nothin' abaht that 

GwiLYM. And it was a good thing for his wife 
and children that it happened? 

Sam. Well, 'e was a waild 'un, and no mistaike. 
But wot I sez is, where's the common sense of it — 
[87] 



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goin' dahn on 'is knees and bringin' in my nime 
laikethat? 

GwiLYM [with a smile]. Ah, well, Sam! It's no 
use trying to explain. You'd never understand 

Sam [emphatically]. I can understand anything 
that's got plain sense in it, and I don't want ter 
understand no more. 

GwiLYM [teasingly]. No? 

Sam [defiantly]. No! 

GwiLYM [sympathetically]. Hard luck, Sam! 

Sam [confidently]. Don't yer worry abaht me. 
I'm orl raite. I can keep my bit o' common sense, 
thank Gawd ! [Getting up and taking the fiag.] Well, 
I suppose I'd better be gittin' dahn ter the crossin' 
agen. I 'card some tork of a special bein' run up 
ter-day. Some of the managers, I expect. 

Lewis [eagerly]. What time, Sam? 

Sam. Taime? I dunno' exactly; some taime this 
mornin' I believe. You ain't 'card any thin', 'ave yer? 

Lewis. I? No, no! [He turns away in some 
embarrassment.] I was only wondering, that's all. 

Sam [looking at him keenly]. Ow! [In a light 
tone.] Well, I'm orf . 

GwiLYM. Half a minute, Sam. I'm coming 
down as far as the crossing. [He goes to the dresser 
[88] 



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and selects a few white blooms from those in the vase.] 
I want to show these White Spencers to old Roberts. 
He tells me his are in a bad way. I told him all 
along he'd planted them in the wrong place. 

[GwEN comes in from kitchen with the tray.] 

GwEN. Going out you are, Gwilym? 

GwiLYM. Only down to Roberts's, ma'am. 

Lewis [with some anxiety]. Are you going to be 
long, Gwilym? 

GwiLYM. Not if he doesn't start talking about 
his garden. 

Lewis. If I were you 

Sam [in the doorway]. Lot o' people abaht this 
mornin'. Come on, Gwilym! [Over his shoulder.] 
Well, boree dawkee, missis. Boree dawkee. 

[He goes out, followed by Gwilym. 

GwEN [beginning to clear the table]. Your father 
wouldn't stay in bed after all. Here he is coming 
down. 

Lewis. Is he.^ [Taking up the newspapers.] 
When — if anybody comes for me, ma'am, I'll be 
reading in the parlor. 

GwEN. All right. 

[Lewis goes into parlor. 
[89] 



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Enter Price from the kitchen, dressed in his weekday 
clothes, and carrying his boots in his hand. He 
glances at Gwen. There is evidently a strain in their 
relations. He sits down in the armchair and puts on 
his hoots. Without noticing him, Gwen begins to 
clear the table, gathering the things into the tray. 

Price. I've been thinking, Gwen, I'd better go 
down this morning and see Peters the Insurance 
about Gwilym's ticket. 

Gwen [distantly]. Oh! 

Price. From what they tell me, it will cost an 
awful lot of money; but I dare say I can raise a few 
pounds over what I've got in the Post Office. 

Gwen. Yes, I dare say. 

Price. If it hadn't been for this old strike we 
could have managed well enough. [He looks in- 
quiringly at Gwen, as if expecting some remark. She 
is sighing quietly.] What's the matter, Gwen? 

Gwen. I'm thinking of our John Henry. 

Price [bitterly]. I've been thinking of him, too — 
thinking of the words he used to me last night — to 
me, his father. 

Gwen. It's of the words you used to him I'm 
thinking, John — to him, your son. 
[90] 



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Price. He was in the wrong. 

GwEN. P'raps so. I don't know. But he's our 
son. 

Price. I've got my duty toward God as well as 
my duty toward my children. Have you thought 
of that.? 

GwEN. I'm not afraid of that, John. I think 
God understands us mothers. Perhaps you can't; 
you're only John Henry's father. 

Price [with a little unexpected sadness in his 
voice]. Are you going to turn against me, too, 
Gwen? 

GwEN [with a sudden movement toward him]. 
No, John bach, I don't want to turn against you. 
It will never be my fault if I do. We've lived here 
together, man and wife, for over thirty years. We've 
seen good days and bad, John, and we've always 
faced them together. And you've been a good 
husband to me always. Often and often I've 
thought of it, when I know of many here in Aber- 
pandy spending their wages in the public, and laying 
their hands on their wives when they're wild with 
the drink. You've never raised your voice against 
me, John, not once since we began walking out to- 
gether on the road up Bryndu. It's proud of you 
[91] 



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I've been and proud I've spoken, many and many's 
the time, amongst the women up here on the Twmp. 
[Going slowly toward Mm with appeal creeping into 
her voice.] But there's the children, too, John bach; 
there's the children, too. I'm not only your wife. 
I'm their mother as well. 

Price \firmly]. John Henry was in the wrong, 
Gwen. 

GwEN. No, John. It's you who are in the 
wrong. You've put shame on him before all Aber- 
pandy. You've sent him away as if he was a 
drunkard or a thief 

Price. An unbeliever isn't so much better 

GwEN. Whatever he is, he's our son 



Price [stubbornly]. I've done what I think is 
right ! 

GwEN. How can you be doing right when you're 
making me so unhappy.^ 

Price. Unhappy.? D'you think it's a happy 
man I am to-day and the great hopes I had all gone 
to bits? I haven't been to a Cymanfa Pregethu for 
the last ten years but that, to myself, I was thinking 
that one day I might have a boy of my own a great 
preacher, too. 

Gwen [kindly]. But it wasn't to be, John. I 
[92] 



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wanted a son in the ministry, too. But it wasn't 
to be. 

Price. I'm only an ignorant collier. I had to go 
to the pit when I was twelve, and I've suffered for 
it all my life. I've known what it means to have 
had no schooling. There's ideas come into my head 
at times that I can't explain. I struggle and strug- 
gle and I'm dumb for want of words. But I made up 
my mind that my boys should have schooling, if I 
worked myself to the bone to give it. Lewis didn't 
have much, it's true, but he was the eldest. And 
we sent John Henry to college. You know yourself 
what it meant, and Gwilym so bad. And now, what 
have we got for it in the end — for all the slaving and 
hoping, for all the years of waiting? He's given 
up the denomination; he's turned his back on the 
ministry; he's denied his God! 

GwEN. Oh! but John, he's very young. And 
he's miserable, too. He was reading for hours at 
night instead of going to sleep. I could see by the 
candle 

Price. Miserable.? I don't wonder. A man 
without religion can't help being miserable. What 
would I have done, all these years, without my 
religion? 

[93] 



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GwEN. I don't know, John. But there's some- 
thing in me, something I can't explain, that's always 
hungry if I haven't got the boys about. [Pleadingly.] 
Oh, John, John! Isn't it enough that we've got to 
part with our Gwilym? Isn't it enough for me to 
bear that he's going away — thousands and thousands 
of miles away, and it's somebody else will be looking 
after him and seeing to his things? When you're 
working in the pit, I'll have to be here, going about 
the house, where he was always with me; and all day 
long I'll be thinking of him, and him so far away, 
fighting for his life, with the water between us! 
It's hard enough on me as it is, John bach. Don't 
you go and make it harder. 

Price. What do you want me to do .f* 

GwEN [insinuatingly]. Well, you know, John, 
you know how stubborn our John Henry is. He 
can't help it, poor boy! It's born in him. You've 
said yourself he's got Myfanw's nose and chin 

Price. Well ? 

GwEN. Well, I was thinking, John, that you 
might write him a letter saying you are sorry 

Price. Me? Sorry? 

GwEN [quickly]. Yes, John, you mustn't say no. 
If you don't, he'll never come back again till one of 
[94] 



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us is on our death-bed. It won't cost you anything 
to write a letter — only a few words, John ! 

Price. So it's I am in the wrong, Gwen? 

GwEN. But, John, John, what does it matter 
who's in the wrong so long as he comes back? 

Price [with cold determination]. I won't write. 
Not a word! 

GwEN [drawing hack a step. There is a note of 
warning in her tone]. John! 

Price [gravely]. It's come to this. Gwen — are 
you going to let the children divide us, after all 
these years? 

GwEN [frightened hy his tone]. No, John bach, 
don't say that. I don't want anything to divide us. 
I want you all — you, and John Henry, and Lewis, 
and Gwilym. I want you all. And, oh, John, I 
want us all to be quiet and happy together, just as 
we used to be long ago. Don't you remember, 
John bach, how happy we were here when they were 
little? 

Price [bitterly]. It's lucky we couldn't see the 
future ! 

GwEN. There was Lewis in the Infants down at 
the British School, and John Henry hanging on to 
the chairs all day long as I went about the house — 
[95] 



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you know he didn't learn to walk so quick as Lewis; 
and there was Gwilym only a baby, with such big, 
wondering eyes — d'you remember? 

Price. Poor Gwilym! 

GwEN. And then, as things went on, you'd be 
teaching them their verses for Sunday, in the even- 
ings when you'd washed all over, after the work 
was done. And sometimes we'd sit here talking 
over what they were going to be. 

Price. I did my best for them, Gwen. I've 
always done my best. 

Gwen. And once you took Lewis to Pontypridd 
to see Gladstone — do you remember, John? — and 
held him on your shoulder for nearly two hours. 
Happy days they were, John — the happiest days 
of all. And all the time I was wishing for them to 
grow up. That's the foolishness of us women, and 
we're all the same. When we've got our children 
for our very own — even then we're not satisfied, 
and when they've grown beyond us, we want them 
as they used to be I 

Price. We didn't think then there would be such 
a disappointment. 

Gwn^ [with mild rebuke]. Disappointment? Well, 
there's a few people in Aberpandy who've got more 
[96] 



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right to be proud of their children — taking them 
through and through. 

Price. There's not much room to be proud of 
Lewis that I can see; and — [bitterly] — when I 
think of John Henry, I wish he'd never been born. 

GwEN. Can't you understand, John, whatever 
he's done, he's our boy still? If he'd stolen money 
or told lies — aay, if he'd killed a man with his own 
hands, he's our boy still; and that's beyond all 
changing. [A pause.] You will write to him, John? 

Price. No. 

GwEN [looking at him with a little frown]. You're 
a hard man, John ! 

Price. I'm following my conscience. 

GwEN. If you loved him as you ought to, you 
wouldn't think of your conscience. [She goes to 
table and folds up the cloth.] 

Price. It's not an easy thing for a man to send 
his son from his own house. It's not an easy thing, 
I tell you, for him to walk about the streets and know 
he's had to do it. 

[GwEN takes the tray into the back-kitchen, 
and coming back at once, puts the cloth 
into the dresser drawer.] 

G WEN [at the dresser] . You won't write to him, John ? 
[97] 



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Price. No. 

GwEN [turning round and speaking slowly]. Take 
care, John. Take care. If you let him go Hke this, 
I'll never forgive you. 

[For a moment they face each other, neither 
flinching.] 
Price. So it's come to this ! 
GwEN [with quiet menace]. Don't drive me, 
John! [Seeing him shake his head sadly, she melts 
at once, and adds in a tremulous whisper.] Oh, John, 
don't drive me ! 

[There is a knock at the door. Without wait- 
ing for an answer, Lizzie Ann enters. 
GwEN immediately assumes her normal 
manner, as if anxious to hide her troubles, 
even from Lizzie Ann. Lizzie Ann is a 
woman in middle life, and of an appear- 
ance that suggests more industry than 
intelligence. She is dressed in her best 
clothes, sufficiently humble. In one hand 
she carries a small dilapidated dress-basket, 
in the other a few roots wrapped up in 
paper.] 
Lizzie Ann. Well, modryb, here I am — back 
again. 

[98 1 



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Price [kindly] . I hope you enjoyed yourself down 
there in Llantrisant, Lizzie Ann. 

Lizzie Ann. Oh, yes, famous! Thank you, 
ewyrth. And I've brought back a few roots for 
Gwilym 

GwEN. How is your sister Morfydd, Lizzie Ann? 

Lizzie Ann [putting the roots on the dresser, then 
removing her coat and hat]. Better than I expected, 
modryb, much better. Such a nice Httle home 
she's got there, you wouldn't believe — three rooms 
up and three down, counting the scullery. [She takes 
her coat and hat to the back-kitchen door and hangs 
them up very carefully,] 

GwEN. Have you had breakfast, Lizzie Ann? 

Lizzie Ann. Oh, yes, thank you. I was think- 
ing on the way up, before I met Mrs. Howells the 
Pop Shop, I'd better change, and start the washing 
at once. [Casually.] Is there a meeting this morn- 
ing? There were a lot of men coming down Bryndu 
toward the station 

GwEN. I'm afraid, Lizzie Ann, we'll have to 
put off the washing till to-morrow. 

Lizzie Ann. Wash on a Tuesday, modryb? 

GwEN. I haven't put out the things. 

Lizzie Ann. Well, tan i marw! We haven't 
[99] 



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done the washing any day but Monday — not since 
Gwilym was born. [She gives Price a side-glance 
of curiosity.] 

GwEN. I — I've been upset, Lizzie Ann. 
Lizzie Ann [with another glance at Price]. Oh! 
Modryb fach! Will I do a bit on the brass? 

Price. I think I'll go down to see Peters about 
the ticket, Gwen. 
GwEN. All right. 

[Price takes his hat and opens the door. A 

sound of voices going down the hill is heard, 

and in the distance, a confused hubbub. 

Price looks out as if puzzled, and muttering, 

^'Whafs the matter f he goes out. From 

time to time during the dialogue between 

Gwen and Lizzie Ann the noise is heard 

again, not loudly, however, for both door and 

window are closed. Gwen takes her knitting 

from the dresser and sits in the armchair.] 

Lizzie Ann [casually as Price goes out]. There's 

no end to them and their old meetings ! [Eagerly as 

soon as the door is closed.] What is it, modryb? 

What's he been doing to John Henry? I met Mrs. 

Howells the Pop Shop down by the station, and she 

said he'd turned him out of house and home. 

[ 100 1 



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GwEN [with dignity]. H'm! So Mrs. Howells the 
Pop Shop has got hold of it, has she? 

Lizzie Ann. Well, you know, modryb fach, how 
neighbors will talk. If we're not going to wash 
to-day, I suppose I may as well do a bit on the brass. 
[Goes into kitchen and speaks.] Is it true he turned 
John Henry out because of him taking to the drink .^ 
[She comes back with apron and things for polish- 
ing. She takes candlesticks from mantelpiece and 
rubs.] 

GwEN [indignantly]. Drink? Our John Henry 
drink? Is that what's going about the place? 

Lizzie Ann. No, not exactly, modryb. But 
Mrs. Howells was saying that, once you send a 
young man to college, there's no knowing. Not 
that I see much harm in a glass of beer myself 

GwEN. Well, next time you see Mrs. Howells the 
Pop Shop, you can tell her from me that she'd better 
be careful of what she's saying. Who is she to start 
talking about us, I'd like to know? Why, it's a dis- 
grace the way she lets them poor children go out on a 
Sunday! It's coming to something when people 
like us are being talked of by a woman like Polly 
Howells! Why! you know yourself, Lizzie Ann, 
her father was only a rag-and-bone man living down 
[ 101 1 



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a gwli ! [In her quiet way, she is, just now, a picture 
of outraged self-respect.] 

Lizzie Ann. From what she was saying, John 
Henry's given up studying for a preacher, after all? 

GwEN. He's changed his mind; that's all, Lizzie 
Ann. It's very likely now he'll be going in for the 
teaching. And a very respectable position, too; 
especially if he goes into the intermediate. 

Lizzie Ann. Oh, yes! I don't deny. There's 
Willie Meredith now, son of Meredith the Bread. 
Wears a box-hat every Sunday, so they do say. 

GwEN. I'm not saying that John Henry and your 
uncle didn't have a few words; but there's no need 
for people to talk — especially some people ! I dare 
say your uncle will write to him one of these first 
days. And, next time you see that Polly Howells, 
you can tell her that John Henry has gone to London 
for a bit of a holiday with the choir. [Pronounced 
''koyerr] 

Lizzie Ann. Oh, I'll let her know, come you. 
True or not, I'll let her know. 

GwEN. And if you just reminded her who she 
is, and where she came from, there wouldn't be so 
much harm done either. 

Lizzie Ann. But one thing I must say for her 
[ 102 ] 



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whatever — she spoke very kind about of my sister 
Morfydd. Nothing would do but I must tell her 
all about the house. And it is a nice little home, 
there's no denying, clean as a pin in paper, upstairs 
and down, and our Morfydd mistress of it all, and 
proud as the Queen of England ! 

GwEN [quietly and smiling to herself]. Ah, yes! 
I know. [A pause.] What is she hoping for — a 
boy or a girl? 

Lizzie Ann. Well, indeed, one day one thing and 
next day another. Of course he's all for a boy. I'm 
hoping it's going to be a boy myself, and then they 
can name him Daniel Richard after the two grand- 
fathers 

GwEN. I don't know. I don't know, indeed! 
You haven't got the same hold on boys when they 
grow up 

Lizzie Ann. No. That's true, of course 



GwEN. There's work to be done; and one goes 
here and another goes there 

Lizzie Ann. Have you heard any more from 
your sister-in-law in Australia .f* 

GwEN. Yes. We had a letter just after you went 
to Llantrisant. It's fixed now that Gwilym will go 
in five weeks* time. 

[103 1 



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Lizzie Ann. Diwedd anw'l! Five weeks? So 
soon as that? [She stops work in order to digest 
the news.] 

GwEN. Doctor Willie Jenkins says it will be the 
making of him 

Lizzie Ann. What the house will be like without 
him, I don't know. 

Gw^EN. And in a few years he'll be coming back 
strong and well. I'm almost afraid to believe it, 
Lizzie Ann. I'm almost afraid to believe I'll ever 
see him strong and well. If only God will spare 
till that day — how glad I'll die! 

Lizzie Ann. He's been a good boy to you, 
modryb. 

GwEN. Yes. He's been a good boy to his mother. 
So have they all. Lewis and John Henry, too; 
they've all been good to their mother. But Gwilym's 
always been home here with me, and they've been 
busy with one thing and another 

Lizzie Ann. Yes, Gwilym's different somehow. 
I know what you mean. Whatever you say or 
don't say, Gwilym always understands. If he was 
my boy, the wind shouldn't blow on him. It won't 
be so easy to part with him — when the time comes. 

GwEN [tremulously]. No. But we must try not 
[ 104 ] 



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to lose heart, Lizzie Ann, and then Myfanw' will be 
sure to be kind to him. She's got no children of 
her own. 

Lizzie Ann. No, I know. I never thought 
much good would come of that barman. [A pause.] 
Suppose now, modryb, he was never to come back. 

GwEN [sharply]. Never come back? Don't talk 
so foolish, Lizzie Ann! Of course he'll come back. 

Lizzie Ann. His Aunt Myfanw' didn't come 
back. [Struck by a sudden fear, Gwen lets her knit- 
ting drop.] I was thinking she might take to him 
altogether and leave him her money after her days. 
And, again, he might get married out there 

Gwen [rising]. What d'you mean, Lizzie Ann? 
You think she'll try to turn him from me and keep 
him to herself? 

Lizzie Ann [apologetically]. I was only thinking, 
modryb; that's all. 

Gwen [with agitation]. He wouldn't do it. He 
wouldn't do it, I tell you. I'm his mother. He'll 
always love me best of all. 

Lizzie Ann. I only meant — well, you know 
what boys are — how they grow up and forget. 

Gwen [with vehemence]. But he won't forget. 
What does it matter about the others? I never 
[105] 



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heard such nonsense as you're talking, Lizzie Ann — 
never in all my life. 

Lizzie Ann. But, modryb fach, I was only just 
saying 

GwEN. All the same, I'll have to think it over. 
She might do it. She's just that sort of woman — 
so strange and full of feeling. She's hungry to have 
children about her. I know, I know! But she 
shan't have mine — not our Gwilym. He shan't 
go if it comes to that 



Lizzie Ann. But you 

GwEN. No. He shan't go. [Turning fiercely on 
Lizzie Ann.] And you're a wicked woman, Lizzie 
Ann, to be putting such thoughts into my head ! 

Lizzie Ann [injured]. Wicked.? Me, wicked? 

GwEN. I'll talk to his father. We can write an- 
other letter 

Lizzie Ann. And how about his health, poor 
boy 

GwEN. We must find some other way. Some- 
thing must be done. I — I — I [She bursts 

into tears and drops into the armchair, her power of 
resistance broken once again.] I want to keep him, 
Lizzie Ann! If he was to turn to Myfanw' — it 
would break my heart. 

[106] 



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Lizzie Ann [melting at once]. There you! There 
you now, modryb fach! I didn't think; that was 
all. 

GwEN. And you said he might get married 

Lizzie Ann. Twt! Twt! We haven't even heard 
of a sweetheart yet. 

Gwen. You can venture it would be somebody 
not half good enough for him. You know what the 
girls are to-day ! 

Lizzie Ann. There's plenty of time before think- 
ing of that. 

GwEN. If he'd let me choose her for him, I 
wouldn't mind so much 

Lizzie Ann. Come you now. Don't you fret 
like this. It's John Henry going away that's upset 
you. 

GwEN. It wasn't right, Lizzie Ann — what I 
told you — about John Henry. His father did 
turn him out. 

Lizzie Ann. Yes. I knew that all the time. 
[Cheerfully.] Now I'll make a cup of tea in half a 
minute. [Clearing away the candlesticks, while 
GwEN slowly dries her eyes.] And we'll have it by 
here, nice and quiet. 

[The murmur outside rises. There is a great 
[107] 



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shout. GwEN looks up. Lizzie Ann at the 
mantelpiece turns round quickly.] 
Lizzie Anis! [going quickly toward window]. What's 
that? [Looking out.] Diwedd anw'l, they're down 
there at the crossing in their hundreds ! 

[GwEN rises and goes toward the window. 
Lizzie Ann goes to the door and opens it. 
The angry noise of the crowd comes in 
more loudly.] 
Lizzie Ann [starting]. Duw mawr! Look! 
GwEN [looking through the window]. What is it? 
Lizzie Ann. Soldiers! 

GwEN. Where's Lewis? Oh, yes! Inthelarlwr. 
But Gwilym? Ble mae Gwilym? 

Lizzie Ann. He'll be safe in somebody's house. 
Here's your husband and Isaac Pugh coming. 

GwEN. What's going on, Lizzie Ann? I can't 
see so clear as I used to. 

Lizzie Ann. The soldiers — down there — d'you 
see? They're keeping the men back from the gates. 
GwEN. They're rushing. Listen! 

[There is a roar of voices. 

Lizzie Ann. And they're being driven back. 

Can you see? Look! They're throwing stones 

again — over the wall before Roberts's house. 

[108] 



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Duw, Duw ! They've hit one of the soldiers. Look ! 
look! His face is all over blood. [She shrinks.] 
Oh, ach! 

GwEN. Oh! Poor man! Poor man! And 
there's two more hurt. D'you see, at the back? 

Enter Price and Isaac Pugh. 

Price. Is Lewis here? 

GwEN. Where's Gwilym, John? He isn't down 
there? 

Price. He's safe in Roberts's house. Where's 
Lewis? 

Enter Lewis from the parlor. He is quivering with 
excitement. 

Price. Come down to the crossing. Quick! 

GwEN. No, Lewis. No! [To Price.] How can 
you ask him? 

Pugh. We've done our best. They won't listen 
to us. The soldiers can't stand it much longer. 

Price. They say you've got most power over the 
men. Come and use it, for God's sake, before 
there's murder done! 

[109 1 



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Enter hurriedly TwM Powell. 

TwM. It's now or never, Lewis. They've brought 
the soldiers over the hill. The train's coming up the 
valley. 

Lewis. I'm coming, Twm. It's got to be 
stopped. 

PuGH. They'll shoot! 

TwM. No. They've only got blank; that's all. 
[Lewis moves to go. His father stops him.] 

PuGH. They said they'd have to shoot. 

Lewis [brushing his father aside]. Then, damn 
them, let them shoot ! Come on, Twm. 

[GwEN intercepts him on the way to the door, 
trying to hold him bacJc.] 

GwEN. You shan't go, Lewis ! O boy bach, boy 
bach, what if they kill you? 

Lewis [putting her aside and laughing grimly]. 
I shan't be the first. [He goes out followed by Twm. 

GwEN [to Price]. Go after him, John. Don't 
let them hurt him. He's young and wild, that's 
all, that's all. 
Price. Come on, Pugh. 

[Price and Pugh go out together. 
GwEN [as they go]. Don't let them hurt him. 
[110] 



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[Wringing her hands.] Oh, the trouble that's in the 
world! [She goes to the window.] Where is he? 
Where's our Lewis? 

Lizzie Ann. There he is, running down the hill. 

GwEN. They're throwing stones again. Oh! 
Why don't they go home? Why don't they go home 
quiet? 

Lizzie Ann. There's another soldier hurt. Look! 
They're dragging him behind. 

GwEN. What are they going to do? Look at 
him — that one — the leader, talking to the sol- 
dier 

Lizzie Ann. He's going to fire in the air — to 
warn them. [Shot without.] 

GwEN. Arglwydd mawr ! They're rushing again. 

Lizzie Ann. There's the train. I can see the 
smoke down the valley. 

GwEN. Look! Look! Isn't it Lewis? 

Lizzie Ann. Yes. There he is in the front 

GwEN. He's climbing the wall by Roberts's 
house. He's shouting to them. Lewis! Lewis! 
Go down! [She bends forward, and gives a frightened 
shriek.] There's our Gwilym. Look! He's on the 
wall, trying to pull Lewis away 

Lizzie Ann. There's four soldiers. O Dduw! 

[Ill] 



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Don't look! Don't look! They're going to shoot! 
[She drags Gwen away from the window. 
There is a sound of firing without^ followed by 
deep silence. In a whisper,] 
They've done it! 

Gwen [pointing to the window]. Look! 
Lizzie Ann [shuddering]. I can't. 
Gwen. You must! 
Lizzie Ann. I can't. 

[Gwen wavers a moment, and then forces her- 
self toward the window and looks out] 
Gwen. They're carrying some one into Roberts's 
house. It's Lewis. No, there's Lewis! [She bends 
forward; then in a harsh voice.] Lizzie Ann, come 
here! 

[Lizzie Ann goes quickly to her, and looks out. 
She starts and turns away, sobbing out, 
^'Oh, machgen bach-W] 
Gwen. Is it — Gwilym? 
Lizzie Ann. Yes. Gwilym! 

[For a moment Gwen stands swaying to and 
fro. Then, with a cry of anguish, she falls 
prostrate on the floor.] 

Curtain 



[in 



ACT IV 



ACT IV 

Time: Afternoon of a day five weeks later. 

Scene : The same. 

Lizzie Ann is at the table making cake. She is 
dressed in black. Her sleeves are rolled up to the 
elbow. Her face is lit up by gladness. She has 
paused in her work to talk to Sam, who, seated in the 
chair by the window y looks at her with an air of 
satisfied proprietorship. The chair from left of 
dresser is close to table on left side. 

Sam. So that's settled, eh, Lizzie Ann? 

Lizzie Ann. It's kind of you to ask me, Sam. 

Sam [with a touch of condescension]. Ow no! Ow 
no! Of course, I don't say yer 'aven't got a taidy 
sort of plaice 'ere as things go. There's no deny in' 
it was kaind of 'em ter taike yer in when yer f awther 
was killed, and orl that. But yer've worked 'awrd 
for yer keep. 

Lizzie Ann [resuming her work]. Well, I sup- 
[115 1 



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pose, Sam, every woman wants a little home of her 
own. I've been working hard all my life. And 
I'm not so young as I was, Sam. 

Sam. Well, come ter that, I ain't no chicken, 
either. 

Lizzie Ann [with hesitation]. Somehow, I don't 
seem to see myself as a married woman 

Sam. I ain't exactly bin 'avin' visions of meself 
as a married man, either — not till laitely any'ah. 
But there's sich a lot of funny things bin goin' on 
this lawst couple o' months, a man maite get married 
and buried withaht so much as noticin' it. Nah, as 
I was tellin' yer, I've been offered this 'ere job dahn 
at the goods-yard in Cwmyglo. It ain't a fortune 
— twenty -three bob a week; but it's more than I 
was gittin' 

Lizzie Ann. But a woman can make it go a 
long way — if she's saving, Sam. 'Tisn't the same 
as if I'd be wanting to send out any of the washing 
or to have a girl coming in now and then. I know 
the way to work. That's one thing, whatever! 

Sam. And I dare say they'll give me something 
better later on. It orl comes of stickin' ter the Com- 
pany in the rileway straike ! 

Lizzie Ann. Yes, you were wise there, Sam, 
[116] 



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though there's many here in Aberpandy were look- 
ing so black at you. 

Sam. You bet! I ain't knocked abaht this 
bloomin' old world for no thin'. Look at Dai Mat- 
thews, nah! 'E's 'ad the push from the Board 
School. Orl comes of openin' 'is math tew much. 

Lizzie Ann. Aay, poor feller! Mrs. Howell the 
Pop Shop was telling me she'd heard he was thinking 
of going to foreign parts. 

Sam. Yus. Aht to Australia, I b'lieve. Nah, I 
reckon from wot the foreman tells me, I'll be shifted 
dahn ter Cwmyglo in abaht five or six weeks; and 
we could git married just before 

Lizzie Ann [agitated by some romantic spasm]. 
Oh, Sam, so soon as that.^^ 

Sam. Well, it won't be any use me goin' into 
lodgin's dahn there. I'd be more comfortable in 
my own 'ouse. We could git a bit o' furniture on 
the 'ire system. 

Lizzie Ann. Where were you thinking we'd 
better go, Sam — to get married, I mean? 

Sam. Well, I was thinkin' of the registry or- 
fice 

Lizzie Ann. No, Sam bach, not the office 



Sam. But I don't maind so long as we git over it 
[117] 



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quick, laike. And we maite spend the day in 
Cawdiff, and 'ave a bob's worth at the Empire. 

Lizzie Ann [still romantic]. Oh, Sam! I must 
write and tell our Morfydd. 

Sam [meditatively]. Yus. It's the best way. I 
don't want no more lodgin's. Of course, I ain't 
sayin' nothin' agen me plice 'ere. I've bin comfort- 
able enough in a way of speakin' 

Lizzie Ann. Yes, I know, I know. But it 
isn't like having a little home of your own after all, 
is it, Sam.f* 

Sam. But this lawst month 'as fair given me the 
bloomin' 'ump. There's the missis, nah, she gives 
a feller the blues every taime 'e claps eyes on 'er. 

Lizzie Ann. Oh, but, Sam, it was an awful blow 
for her — losing poor Gwilym like that. I don't 
think she'll ever get over it. She was always dull 
on him, poor boy; fair dull she was. 

Sam. Yus. But wot's the use o' worryin' over 
it? That's wot I sez, wot's the use o' worryin'? 
'Tain't as if worryin' would bring 'im back. 

Lizzie Ann. But a woman can't help her feel- 
ings, Sam. How can she? I know how it would be 
on me, if I was his mother. And then there was 
John Henry again. Just fancy him going on the 
[118] 



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stage like that, and brought up so respectable, 
too! 

Sam. My dear gel, the boy 'ad ter earn a livin' 
some'ah. 'E couldn't stawrve. It ain't orl beer 
and skittles singin' in the chorus of a mewsical 
comedy. Couple o' quid a week 'e'll git, I suppose. 
It ain't so bad, yer know. And the *stawrs,' they 
git anythin' up ter a hundred and fifty pahnd a 
week 

Lizzie Ann. A hundred and fifty a week? Cer- 
ona, Sam! 

Sam. Fact! 

Lizzie Ann [reflectively]. Well, a man can afford 
to put up with a bit of disgrace when he's getting 
a hundred and fifty pound a week for it. Can't he 
now? But his father was furious, all the same. 

Sam. 'E would be. 'E's narrer-mainded. That's 
wot 'e is. Wot can yer expect of a man brought up 
in an 'ole laike this? 

Lizzie Ann. Anyhow, you can be pretty sure 
John Henry won't show his face here again for 
years. It's hard on his mother, poor woman! I 
don't know what's come over her. It isn't like her 
to be setting me to make the cake like this. That's 
the one thing she would always do herself. And 
[119] 



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there's she's been, all day long, up in poor Gwilym's 
room 

Sam. Well, p'raps yer couldn't expect her ter 
look at it in a proper laite. But there's Lewis, nah ! 
Wot can yer mike of Lewis? 

Lizzie Ann. Aay. There's a change come over 
Lewis. It's hard to understand it, but after all, 
Sam, you mustn't forget Gwilym was his own flesh 
and blood. It's a pity he hasn't gone back to work 
like the others. There's no good can come of him 
moping about all day like this. 

Sam. 'E's gittin' on me nerves, is Lewis. I 
cawnt stand it. I tell yer strite this 'ere 'ouse is 
gittin' as solemn as a church; and I don't want a 
church; I wants a bit o' comfort. Nah there was 
lawst naite. The old people 'ad gawn ter bed. 
Lewis come 'ome very laite, and 'e'd bin drinkin' 
'awrd 

Lizzie Ann. It's a pity, Sam, and him such an 
abstainer as he used to be; but, when you come to 
think of it, it isn't such a wonder ! 

Sam. Well, ter put it in plain English, 'e was 

clean up the pole was Lewis, and, some'ah, there was 

a kaind of waild look abaht 'im. I ofiPered him a 

paipe o' baccy, sociable-laike, and stawrted torkin' 

[120] 



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ter 'im in a friendly way; but 'e didn't tike much 
notice. Orl of a suddin', up 'e jumps and grips me 
by the awrm. "It wasn't my fault," 'e sez in a 
'oarse voice, "it wasn't my fault. Nobody can say 
it was my fault." And I felt 'im tremblin' all over. 

Lizzie Ann. Did you now.^* Poor Lewis bach! 

Sam. 'E began walkin' abaht. Then 'e stopped, 
shiverin' agen, and waite as a sheet. "There's a 
ghost in the 'ouse," 'e sez; "I'll never 'ave peace any 
more. ' ' And then — would you believe it ? — before 
I know wot ter say, dahn 'e goes on 'is knees by the 
taible 'ere with 'is 'ead on 'is 'ands, and stawrted 
prayin' — yus, prayin' and cryin' tergether, and 
'arf drunk all the taime. Mide me feel bloomin' 
uncomfortable, I can tell yer! Nah wot can yer 
mike of a man goin' on laike that? It's worse than 
Shewni Good-lookin' in the Revaiv'l, and I thought 
'e was abaht the limit! It's taime I cleared aht. 
Orl this is gittin' on me nerves. If it goes on much 
longer, I'll be seein' things meself . 

Lizzie Ann [who does not seem to see anything 
very extraordinary in Sam's tale]. Of course, there's 
no real blame on Lewis. He didn't know what 
was going to happen. But he was always so fond 

of Gwilym 

I 121 ] 



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Sam. Yus, but fancy 'im cryin' and prayin' 
laike that, till the perspiraish'n come aht orl over 
me. And 'im — only two months ago, maind yer 
— a shainin' laite in the Ethical Society, and turnin' 
up 'is nose at the very idear of the Almaighty. 
It ain't good enough. I gives it up. I can under- 
stand Scotchmen. I've got the 'ang of niggers and 
Chinamen. But the ways of the Welsh are beyond 
me — quaite beyond me. 

Lizzie Ann [ingenuously]. D'you see something 
funny about us then, Sam? 

Sam. Funny .^ Ow Lor! I do; and, wot's more, 
I seem ter see the Recordin' Aingel lookin' dahn and 
scratchin' 'is 'ead pretty 'awrd. 

Lizzie Ann [listening]. Here's modryb coming 
down from Gwilym's room. 

Sam. I'm goin' for a turn before tea. There's 
tew much sorrer in 'er fice for me. 

[He goes to the door. 

Lizzie Ann. And, Sam, don't tell about us — 
you know — not yet. 

Sam. Raite ow! He goes out. 

[The kitchen door opens, and Gwen is seen in 

the doorway, dressed simply in plain black. 

She is slower and heavier in movement. 

[ 122 ] 



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Her voice is softer and more wistful. 
Throughout the act, though habit drives 
her to take up her knitting, she does little 
more than sit with the work in her hands. 
She shows only an intermittent interest in 
what takes place around her, and her mind 
seems to revert continually to her sorrow. 
From time to time she sighs quietly, and 
murmurs to herself. Since Gwilym's death 
she has aged very much, as if breaking 
under the burden that has been laid upon 
her.] 

GwEN. Where's your uncle, Lizzie Ann? 

Lizzie Akn [with some surprise]. He hasn't come 
down from the pit yet. It isn't time. 

GwEN. Where's Lewis? 

Lizzie Ann. Out somewhere, modryb. 

GwEN. Making cake you are? 

Lizzie Ann. Yes. I thought I'd better get a 
bit ready. 

GwEN. Have you got everything? 

Lizzie Ann. Yes, for this lot. But we're get- 
ting short of currants. You said you were going to 
order some more. 

Gwen. Yes? [Puzzled.] I'm not quite sure. I 
[ 123 1 



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ordered something, I know. Did you tell me about 
the currants? 

Lizzie Ann. Oh, yes ! I'm sure ! 

GwEN [going slowly to the dresser and talcing up 
the grocer* s books]. When was it, Lizzie Ann? 

Lizzie Ann [with a glance, half curious, half 
startled]. Why, day before yesterday, of course! 

GwEN. Oh, yes! Day before yesterday. I was 
forgetting. No. There's no currants down here. 
P'raps you'll see to it, Lizzie Ann? 

Lizzie Ann. All right. And how about bees- 
waxing the upstairs? I've been thinking it would 
do just as well next Monday ■ 

Gwen. You think it would do just as well next 
Monday? 

Lizzie Ann. And I thought that on Saturday I 
could run down to see our Morfydd. It'll be getting 
a bit anxious on her now, and her so near her time. 

Gwen [with appeal]. Oh, Lizzie Ann fach, don't 
go away! I can't spare you, not even for a day. 
It's so lonely in the house. 

Lizzie Ann [temporizing]. Well, some day next 
week, then. 

Gwen [taking her knitting from the dresser drawer, 
and going to the armchair]. Yes; next week — next 
[ 124 1 



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week! [There is a pause, during which Lizzie Ann 
works energetically y while Gwen falls into reverie.] 
It's to-day he was to go. 

Lizzie Ann. To go? Who? [Remembering.] Oh, 
yes! Poor Gwilym! 

Gwen. I was just breaking my heart only to 
think of him crossing the water; and now he's in his 
grave up there on the hill by Horeb; and the grass 
will be growing above him, and I won't see him any 
more. 

Lizzie Ann. Don't vex, modryb fach! Don't 
vex! 

Gwen. There's his bed up there empty, where he 
used to lie, and the pictures looking down that he'd 
see when he woke in the morning. There's the 
world going on just the same, and men and women 
walking about in the streets. But he's in his grave 
by Horeb, and they've put his name on the cold, 
white stone. 

Lizzie Ann. It was the will of God, modryb 
fach ! That's what uncle said it was — the will of 
God! 

Gwen. God's far away, Lizzie Ann, far away 
in the kingdom of heaven; but Gwilym was here as 
I went about the house. There was always a kind- 
[125] 



CHANGE 



ness in his voice, and his hands were always ready to 
smooth away all the troubles. There's no comfort 
in your words, Lizzie Ann — no comfort at all! 

Lizzie Ann [sighing]. Ah, well! P'raps you're 
right. P'raps you're rights after all! 

GwEN. And there's John Henry gone away — — 

Lizzie Ann. He'll be back one of these days. 

GwEN. I know him, Lizzie Ann. I know him! 

Lizzie Ann [with an effort at cheerfulness]. You'll 
see, modryb f ach, wait you ! Wait you ! 

GwEN. Aay. Wait! Wait! Wait! But wait- 
ing won't bring Gwilym back from his grave by 
Horeb. Waiting won't blot out the words John 
Henry and his father said in this room that Sunday 
night. Oh! If only waiting would make them 
babies once more, how glad I'd be waiting! That 
was the time, Lizzie Ann. That was the happy 
time; but I never knew. It's for me they cried 
when there was anything the matter. It's I that 
washed them and dressed them and gave them food. 

Lizzie Ann. He was always a good baby was 
Gwilym. 

GwEN. Yes. A good baby — a good baby, 
lying so quiet all day, with such big, thoughtful 
eyes he had. And there was Lewis, too, always 
[126] 



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hanging on to my skirt, with his *Mam! Mam! 
Mam ! * all day long. 

Lizzie Ann. Aay. He was always a handful, 
was Lewis ! 

GwEN. And John Henry — there was a picture 
of a child for you now! [Lizzie Ann nods sympa- 
thetically.] And clever — oh, clever beyond! I can 
see him now, even before he was put in trousers, 
marching up to the set fawr to say his verses on a 
Sunday night. Never a mistake, never — though 
Isaac Pugh's William Ewart would break down as 
often as not. And then he'd look toward me and 
smile — so pretty he was — and the deacons would 
pat him on the head. 

Lizzie Ann. Aay. It's proud a woman must 
feel, very proud ! I was telling our Morfydd 

GwEN. I can't help thinking of your sister 
Morfydd these last few days. She's got the grand 
times before her, Lizzie Ann, the same as I had then. 

Lizzie Ann. Yes. She ought to be happy ought 
our Morfydd, such a nice little home she's got, and 
him earning regular money ! 

GwEN. And she'll be having children, one after an- 
other — little children that will be all her own for a 
long, long time. It's to her they'll be running all 
[ 127 1 



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the day long; and when they're tired, she'll put them 
to bed, and sing some song she learnt from her 
mother, till they fall to sleep. 

Iazzib Ann [whispering]. Yes! Yes! Yes! 

GwEN. And, in the middle of the night, without 
waking up at all, she'll feel her baby coming closer 
when she moves. She'll be laughing without know- 
ing as she goes about the house, and sometimes 
she'll be afraid and can't tell why. Oh, yes ! She'll 
he having the happy time — the happiest time of 
all! And, till it's gone, and there's change come over 
everything, she'll never know. 

Lizzie Ann [reflectively]. But, I think when a 
woman has children, she couldn't help wishing to see 
them grown up. 

GwEN. Oh, yes ! When you see the men coming 
home from work, strong and tired, and the dirt of 
the pit on their faces, and the smell of it on their 
clothes — it's different then. You can't help think- 
ing of the women putting the water for them to 
wash, and laying the tea, and making the place nice 
and homely. 

Lizzie Ann. Ah, yes! I can understand the 
feeling. If there's one thing a woman do like to see, 
it's the men sitting down tired to their tea, with 

r 128 1 



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their faces clean, and the smell of the soap about 
them. 

GwEN. But there's times when she'll be dream- 
ing. There's this and that keeps running in her head, 
and sometimes, though she's only a workingman's 
wife, she can't help having big ideas. 

Lizzie Ann. Well, nobody can say you didn't 
give the boys the best chance you could. 

GwEN. And now, if I tell the truth, what was it 
all for — the waiting, and the dreaming, and all the 
big ideas ? [Rising and turning away.] For nothing ! 
For nothing at all ! 

Lizzie Ann [protestingly]. But, modryb f ach 

GwEN [swinging round to face Lizzie Ann]. For 
nothing, I tell you. All the ways of our life have 
changed, as we've just gone on from one day to an- 
other. There's something in the world here a 
woman can't understand — something strong and 
cruel, and waiting always. It's a terrible thing, 
Lizzie Ann, for a woman to live so long, and find in 
the end that there's something stronger than all 
her love. 

Lizzie Ann. But there's Lewis still! Wara 
teg for Lewis. He's got his faults; but nobody can 
say he's a bad son. 

[129] 



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GwEN. You mean he doesn't swear at me, like 
Mrs. Harris's Evan next door? He doesn't beat me 
like Gomer Rees beats his poor mother? So I 
ought to be thankful, Lizzie Ann? You think I 
ought to be thankful? [Sitting down and shaking 
her heady with a wan smile of resignation.] Well, 
p'raps you're right, after all. P'raps you're right! 
P'raps you're right ! 

Lizzie Ann. I don't understand what you 
mean modryb. 

GwEN. Never mind! Never mind! [Glancing at 
the clock and changing her tone.] Isn't it time to be 
laying the tea? 

Lizzie Ann. Diwedd anw'l, yes! They're com- 
ing down from the pit. [She takes the things from 
table into the kitchen^ and, returning with the crockery, 
she takes the cloth from dresser drawer and spreads it.] 

[Knock at the door, 

Lizzie Ann. Come in. 

Enter Dai Matthews and Twm Powell. Dai 
is dressed as before, Twm, coming straight from the 
pit, is in his working clothes. He has a "jack'' in one 
pocket and a "box'' in the other. His face is black 
with coal dust. 

[130] 



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Dai. Prydnawn da 'chi, Lizzie Ann. Prydnawn 
da 'chi, Mrs. Price. 

TwM. Shwt ych-chi nawr? 

Lizzie Ann and Gwen. Prydnawn da! 

Dai. Is Lewis in, Mrs. Price? 

Gwen. Not yet, indeed, Dai. But he'll be home 
before long now. Sit down, you! 

[TwM takes the chair to the left of dresser. 
Dai takes that by the window. He seems 
rather downcast.] 

TwM. Dai came up to meet me out of work, so 
we thought we'd look in to see Lewis. He hasn't 
started work with us others. 

Gwen. There's no hurry — no hurry ! You've 
only begun just over a week. 

Lizzie Ann. He isn't quite up to the mark these 
last few weeks. 

Dai. I've heard he's not looking very well. I 
haven't seen him for some time myself. 

Gwen [anxiously]. He's not looking so bad as 
all that — d'you think, Lizzie Ann.^ 

Lizzie Ann [humoring her]. No, no! He's not 
quite himself; that's all. [To Dai.] Is it true, Dai, 
you're going to foreign parts? 

Dai. Yes. I'm going. I've had the sack. 
[131] 



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TwM. There'll be a day, though, when the 
friends of the workingman won't be treated like that. 

Lizzie Ann. Where are you going, Dai? 

Dai. To Australia. [Gwen starts.] I'm leaving 
to-morrow. I thought I'd just call in and say good- 
bye to Lewis. 

Gwen. To Australia? Did you say to Australia, 
Dai? Our Gwilym was going to Australia. Did 
you hear about it, Dai? He'd have been sailing 
to-day. [She falls into abstraction.] 

Lizzie Ann [changing the subject], I suppose 
you're not sorry to be in work again, Twm? [Lay- 
ing the things on the table.] It's a sad place is Aber- 
pandy, when there's no winding on the hill and no 
black faces coming down Bryndu. 

Twm. It's starved back we've been, Lizzie Ann, 
and the trouble isn't settled like that. 

Gwen [who has not been listening]. P'raps 
you've got relations out there? Our Gwilym was 
going to his Aunt Myfanw'. Sister to his father 
she is. 

Dai. No, Mrs. Price. I've got no relations out 
there. I'm going out on a cattle-boat, altogether 
on chance. Has Lewis said anything about going 
back to the pit, Mrs. Price? 
[ 132 ] 



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GwEN. Not yet, indeed. But there's plenty of 
time, plenty of time ! 

TwM. Nor about any other job he had in view — 
nothing about Carmarthenshire? 

Lizzie Ann. No. We haven't heard a word. 
[Dai and Twm look at each other in surprise.] 

GwEN. There's dozens not gone back yet — dozens. 

Dai. Yes, I know. But, if you'll take it in the 
right spirit, Mrs. Price, I'd say you might drop him 
a hint all the same. There were many down on him, 
as they were on me, over the strike; and they might 
say he's too lazy 

Gw'ET<i [bridling up]. Lazy? So that's what they're 
saying now, is it? There's not a lazy bone in his 
body. Didn't he wear himself out for them in the 
strike, from early morning till late at night, and half 
of them on their backs in bed till dinner? 

Lizzie Ann [who has finished laying the tahUy 
and is just going toward kitchen]. S — sh! Here he 
is ! [She goes into kitchen.] 

Enter Lewis. He is wearing the same suit as before, 

but with a black necktie, and a band of crepe on his 

arm. His face is pale and haggard. His natural 

restlessness has grown considerably. There is, also, 

\ 133 1 



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a new element in his manner — a certain feverish 
furtiveness, in which he looks from one to another, 
as if racked by suspicion and always on the watch. 
Seeing Dai and Twm, he attempts to assume an easy 
and familiar attitude. 

Lewis. Hullo, Dai? Shw' ma'i, Twm? 

Dai [looking at him closely]. Oh, weddol, Lewis. 
Weddol! 

Twm. Pretty fair, indeed! 

[Lewis takes up a position at the back, leaning 
against the dresser. There is a short and 
rather awkward pause, in which he looks 
from Dai to Twm, and then away through 
the window.] 

Lewis. Ah! Here's Sam! 

Enter Sam. 

Sam [in the doorway]. 'Ullo! 'Ullo! 'UUo! Shoo 
duckee hay dee, boys? Gawn back ter work then, 
Twm? [He goes to chair left of table, and, turning it 
round, sits on it, facing the visitors.] Well, I thought 
yer would! 

[GwEN, meanwhile, is watching Lewis, who 
has begun to smoke a cigarette in his uneasy 
manner. Lizzie Ann comes in with the loaf.] 
[134] 



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GwEN [to Lewis in a soothing voice]. Would you 
like a nice bit of toast, Lewis, and a boiled egg? 

Lewis [scarcely noticing]. Yes, diolch! Diolch 
I s'pose there's a good many asking why I've not 
gone back to work, eh, Twm? 

GwEN. Twt! Twt! Never you mind, Lewis! 
[To Lizzie Ann.] Plenty of butter, Lizzie Ann, and 
mind you not to boil the egg hard. 

[Lizzie Ann nods and goes out.] 

Sam [to Dai]. So they've given it yer in the neck, 
Dai.? Got the push, 'aven't yer.? 

Dai. Yes, I've had to go. 

Sam. Goin' abroad, so I 'ear? 

[Lewis looks toward Dai with new interest.] 

Dai. Yes, I'm leaving to-morrow. I'm going 
out to Australia. 

Lewis [eagerly]. You're going to Australia, Dai? 
To-morrow? Have you got sick of it, too? Aay! 
It's the place where a man could forget things 

Dai. I'm going because I must. Australia's the 
country for those who believe in the Labor Move- 
ment. 

[Lewis makes a gesture of impatience. Gwen 
is watching him with growing anxiety.] 

Sam. Cost yer a bit ter git there, Dai! 
[135] 



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Dai. Oh, no! I'm going to work my passage. 
D'you remember, Lewis .^ I told you — a cattle- 
boat. There's three or four of us going 

Lewis. Oh, yes! Yes! Yes! [Trying to sup- 
press his eagerness.] You said — didn't you — I 
think you said there'd be plenty of room? 

[GwEN, grasping the arm of the chair, half 
rises y whispering ^ Lewis T in a startled 
tone.] 

Dai [not seeing G wen's movement]. There's more 
now than ever. Two that I know have backed out, 
now that it's time to go. I thought they would. 

TwM [trying to he casual]. By the way, Lewis, 
now that we're talking, how about that new district 
in Carmarthenshire? [Lewis looks puzzled.] You 
remember Dai telling you? 

Lewis. Carmarthenshire? Oh, yes! Yes! And 
about Pinkerton? Oh, yes, of course ! 

GwEN. Were you thinking, Lewis, of going to 
work in Carmarthenshire? 

Dai. It's a good job, Mrs. Price — agent for a 
district that's bound to grow. Pinkerton got them 
to postpone the appointment 

GwEN. Well, I won't try to stand in your light, 
Lewis. I don't so much mind, since it's Sher Gar — 
[136 1 



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if you've made up your mind to go. There's a lot 
of your father's people down there. [Forgetting 
what she was going to say, she falls into thought. Then 
she sighsy and quietly brushes her hand over her eyes.] 

TwM. I suppose now, Lewis, there's no doubt 
you'll take it? 

Lewis [looking at Twm with a queer smile]. No, I 
won't take it, Twm. 

'DM[in surprise]. What? Won't take it? Didn't 
you always say 

TwM[his eagerness breaking through]. No? You're 
sure? Then you might — p'raps you'll put in a 
word for me, Lewis? You know how much I've 
done for the cause 



Dai. But think, Lewis, think 



Lewis. I don't want to think. I'm sick of think- 
ing. I want to forget ! 

Sam. Wot's up, old feller? Forgit wot? 

Lewis [with a look of unspeakable pain, as he 
points toward the crossing]. That — down there! 

GwEN [rising to her feet]. Lewis, 'nghariad-i! 

Dai. But, Lewis bach, it wasn't your fault 

Lewis [imploringly]. No! No! It wasn't my 
fault! It wasn't my fault, was it, Dai? It wasn't 
my fault, was it, Sam? 

[137] 



CHANGE 



Sam. O' course not ! Wot puts sich an idear into 
yer 'ead? 

Lewis [muttering to himself]. No, it wasn't my 
fault ! It wasn't my fault ! 

TwM. You mustn't think of it like that 

Lewis. Not think of it? I tell you it's with me 
day and night, and night and day. I shall never 
have peace and simple sleep again! If I shut my 
eyes now, I can see it before me 

GwEN. Lewis! Lewis! 

Lewis. I can see it before me, I tell you — all, all, 
all ! The crowd about the gates — the faces moving 
to and fro — the sun shining on the rails — the 
soldiers — there they are in two brown lines, and 
there's one with blood running down his face. And 
there are sounds that keep coming into my mind — 
the shouting, and the rushing, and women shrieking 
— I don't know where. It's all so clear, so horribly 
clear. And then — I heard Gwilym calling to me. 
He tried to pull me away. They fired — and there 
he was at my feet, dead — my brother Gwilym — 
dead! 

[There is a long pause. Lewis covers his eyes 
with his hands. Gwen is heard crying to 
herself.] 

\ 138 1 



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Dai. Aay, Lewis, it was a terrible thing to 
happen. But, Lewis, as true as I*m sitting here, 
I see no blame on you. 

Lewis. No! I didn't know, Dai, did I.^^ It 
wasn't my fault. Nobody can say it was my fault. 
How could I tell what was going to happen? I'd 
have seen the strike in hell and all Aberpandy with 
it, before harm should come to a hair of his head. 

TwM. All you did was what you thought best 
for the cause. 

Lewis [looking away]. Ah! There! I wonder! 
I wonder.^ 

Dai. Come, Lewis, come! You were the most 
sincere of us all. 

Lewis. Yes. I was honest enough in my way. 
But I had ambition — I wanted power. All my 
life, I'd wanted that — power, power! I was poor; 
but there was something always whispering to me, 
driving me on and on. It sent me to the night- 
school; it sent me to books; it sent me to politics; and 
— [pointing toward the crossing] — it sent me there ! 

TwM. Dewch, mun, dewch! Look here now, 
never mind about me. You take that job in Car- 
marthenshire. 

Lewis. It's no use. I've lost all heart. D'you 
[ 139 ] 



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know what's the matter with me, Twm? I'm a 
haunted man. Sleeping and waking, I'm a hamited 
man. There's a ghost in Aberpandy that will not 
let me rest. It's looking at me always with his 
kind, kind eyes. And I am afraid. D'you want to 
know why I haven't gone back to work? Because 
I'm afraid — afraid of his voice in the echoes, afraid 
of his face down there in the dark, with the shadows 
moving across the coal. I'm a beaten man. I'm a 
beaten man. And all I'm asking now is a place 
where I can forget. 

Enter Price in his working clothes , with "jack" and 
"box'^ and the dust of the pit upon him. Seeing 
the visitors^ he halts a momenty and his manner 
grows stiff and frigid. 

Dai. Dydd da 'chi, Mr. Price. 
Price [abruptly]. How d'you do? 
Twm. Nice day again! 

[GwEN rises as if to give the armchair to Price.] 
Price [kindly]. No, no! Sit down, you. 

[He crosses in front of table, and takes the chair 
by parlor door, facing the visitors.] 
Dai. So you've started, too, Mr. Price? 
[140] 



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GwEN [toward back-kitchen]. Put the water for 
your uncle to wash, Lizzie Ann. 

Lizzie Ann [without]. All right. 

Price. Aay, I've started. [With a glance toward 
Lewis.] Started first day, and glad of the chance, 
too, after being out all these months, for nothing. 

TwM. Well, it's true we didn't get our terms this 
time 

Price. There were men here told you you 
wouldn't, too ! 

TwM. But we'll get them in the end, don't you 
fear. The trouble isn't ended yet. 

Price. Aay! That's the kind of talk I hear 
them using coming down Bryndu. A man would 
think, after all we've been through, even the young- 
sters had had enough for a bit, whatever. But I 
suppose it's no use trying to make them see reason. 

Sam. No, boss. Not a bit! It's always struck 
me as peculiar that a man don't develop common- 
sense till 'e's pawst the taime when it would come 
in useful. 

TwM. Well, I'll say this, anyhow — we'd be in 
a better position to-day, all of us, if we'd stuck to- 
gether, old men and young. 

Sam. I've noticed, 'ahever, that when one lot 
[1411 



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o* men awsks another lot o' men ter stick tergether, 
it generally means foUerin' the partickler views of 
them wot awsks. 

Price. YouVe put that fellow Pinkerton into 
Parliament. I don't know what more you want. 

Dai. I'm not sure it's putting men in Parliament 
that's going to save the working classes. 

Price. Not men like Pinkerton. 

TwM. We've got to work till we've organized the 
unions so well that we can call out every worker in 
the country at a day's notice. '* Direct Action" — 
that's what's got to come, and that won't come till 
we've got solidarity in Labor. 

Price. Talk! All talk! Wait till you're over 
sixty, and then you'll see. 

Dai. See what? 

Sam. Yer'll see another pack of youngsters 
torkin' of things yer don't understand, and maikin' 
'ell's delaite of wot yer set most store by. Yer'll 
see yerselves comin' dahn on 'em laike a thahsand o' 
bricks. And yer'll all be the saime bloomin' fools 
as yer fawthers before yer. 

Dai. Wait, Sam. There's such a thing as prog- 
ress. 

Sam [with a circular movement of his hand], Rahnd 
[143] 



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and rahnd, that's 'ow things go. I'm gettin' on 
in years. I know — rahnd and rahnd. 

Dai. Yes. But, Sam, what if the centre is 
moving on? 

Price. It's no use talking, Sam. I talked 
enough to Lewis. 

Lewis [grimly]. That's true enough, anyhow. 
[To Sam, reflectively.] I wonder, Sam, if you're 
right ! 

Sam. Don't wonder, me boy. I've bin abaht the 
world. I know. 

Lewis [to Twm and Dai]. They may say what 
they like — if the strike was to go on, we had to 
stop the blacklegs coming in. 

TwM. Yes. That's where they beat us. No- 
body had the heart to tackle them again after — 
after 

Price [grimly and quietly]. After Gwilym was 
killed. Oh, aay! You thought you'd arranged it 
all very fine. But I've lived in the world for more 
than sixty years, and I've never seen good come out 
of anything that was in the hands of unbelievers. 

Lewis [with irritation]. Oh, don't begin all that 
again! 

GwEN. Nawr, John. It's time to wash. 
[143 1 



CHANGE 



Price. No. It doesn't do, when the evil has 
happened, to mention the cause. 

Lewis [with gathering anger]. I tell you I can't 
stand such talk ! We didn't know what was going to 
happen. It wasn't my fault! I acted for the best ! 

Price. A man who has acted for the best ought 
to have a clean conscience. 

Lewis [startled]. A clean conscience? What 
d'you mean? [Defiantly.] What d'you mean? 

Price. There oughtn't to be any need for him to 
blind himself with drink. 

GwEN [rising]. Nawr, John, nawr! 

Lewis [advancing a step angrily]. There's noth- 
ing on my conscience. It wasn't my fault! It 
wasn't my fault ! 

'Pbice [rising]. You can't work. You can't sleep. 
You know ! 

Lewis. Be careful! Be careful! I tell you! 
Don't drive me too far ! 

GwEN [moving to get between them] . John ! Lewis ! 

Price [stopping her with a single gesture]. Taw 
son, Gwen. [To Lewis.] God is not mocked. 

Lewis [hotly] You're down on me. You've al- 
ways been down on me. I followed the truth as I 
saw it. I took my stand openly. I haven't lied to 
[ 144 ] 



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myself, or covered things up with cant. If the men 
listened to me more than to you, I couldn't help it. 
You've been jealous of me. All along you've been 
jealous — you and Isaac Pugh, and all the lot of you! 
Price. You set yourself up against the Almighty 
in the blindness of your pride, and you wouldn't 
listen when I warned you. 

Lewis. Humbug! All humbug! You were jeal- 
ous! 

Price. You had to learn your lesson, like many 
more before you. He's there, and He's watching. 
He's put a judgment upon you. [Lewis shrinks a 
little.] Yes, He's put a judgment upon you, and it's 
the brand of Cain! 

[Groaning out " Uffern! " through his clenched 
teeth, Lewis raises his fist to strike his 
father. Gwen shrieks. There is a general 
movement in the room. The old man does 
not quail, hut meets Lewis squarely, eye to 
eye. Suddenly Lewis's anger collapses, 
and his hand drops to his side. The look of 
haunting and of anguish comes over his 
face. He staggers hack, and supports him- 
self against the tahle.] 
Lewis [in a low, broken voice]. Yes, it's true — 
[ 145 ] 



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the brand of Cain! The brand of Cain! The 
brand of Cain ! I've felt it — down in my heart — 
all the time. All the men and women in the street 

— I'm wondering if they're saying, ** There he is, the 
man who killed his brother." All these weeks I've 
been waiting to hear somebody say it — five long 
weeks — waiting to hear somebody say it; and now 

— it's said ! 

GwEN. Don't you mind him, machan-i. He's a 

hard, hard man 

Dai [turning toward the door]. I think we'd better 
be going. 

[TwM and Sam go out. Lewis rushes to Dai, 
and grips his arm.] 
Lewis. No, Dai, I want you. [To Gwen.] 
Ma'am, I'm going away, far away. 
Gwen. Going Siway? No, no, no! 
Lewis [looking at his father]. You heard what 
he said, ma'am — ** the brand of Cain" .f^ His face has 
been saying it all the time. His face will say it for- 
ever. If I stay here, sooner or later, it will make 
me kill him. 
Price [going toward the kitchen], I'm not afraid. 

[He goes out. 
Gwen. You mustn't leave me, Lewis. You 
[146] 



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mustn't leave me. There's John Henry gone away, 
and Gwilym in his grave forever. What shall I do? 
What shall I do, if I haven't got one left, and old 
age coming heavy upon me? 

Lewis. There's no help for it, ma'am. [To Dai.] 
Dai, I'm coming with you to-morrow. 

Dai. Don't be impulsive, Lewis. Think it 
over. [Exit. 

GwEN. Don't be hard on me, Lewis. Don't be 
hard. Think what it will be for me in this old 
house, one year after another. 

Lewis. It's too late! too late! I'm going where 
there are no hills to keep a man thinking always, and 
perhaps some day I'll forget. [Moving toward the 
door.] I want peace ! peace ! [He goes out. 

[GwEN throws herself into the armchair, rock- 
ing herself to and fro disconsolately.] 

GwEN. Not one, after all ! Dduw, not even 
one. Dim un! Dim un! 

curtain 



147 




THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS 
GARDEN CITY, N. Y. 



